lilii;!; 





LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. I 



i ^de// &JL6. 5 # 

J ^ U45J 

! UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.! 



COTTAR'S SUNDAY, 



OTHER POEMS. 



THE 



COTTAR'S SUNDAY, 



OTHER POEMS, 

CHIEFLY IN THE SCOTTISH DIALECT. 



BY 

PETER 'STILL. 



" Ah ! poetry is like love, its own avenger ; 

Sweet thoughts, fine fancies, by its footsteps roam : 
It wanders through the world a lonely stranger, 

To find this weary world is not its home." 



ABERDEEN: 

GEORGE AND ROBERT KING, 28, ST. NICHOLAS STREET; 

JAMES REID, PETERHEAD; MACGREGOR, POLSON, 

AND CO., 75, ARGYLE STREET, GLASGOW. 



1845. 



SIR MICHAEL BRUCE 



STENHOUSE AND SCOTSTOWN, BARONET, 



§§|ift& goto of fg/Hm 



IS VERY RESPECTFULLY 



AND GRATEFULLY DEDICATED BY 



THE AUTHOR, 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 

To the Reader, .... 1 

The Cottar's Sunday, . . . .17 

Robin and Mary, a Tale, ... 29 

A Dream, . . . . .59 

Lines Written on a blank leaf of "The Book of 
Scottish Song," .... 67 

Stanzas written at the request of a Friend, . 68 

The Orphan's Dream, ... 69 

The Last Speech, Dying Words, and Death of Bacchus, 71 
Ode to Spring, . . . . .80 

A Sailor's Address to the Ocean, . . 81 

Address to my Auld Pipe, . '. .83 

To a Lark, ..... 88 

The Wanderer, . . . . .90 

A Real Vision, . . . .102 

The Scottish Muse, . . . .109 

The Emigrant's Farewell, . . .115 

A Wish, . . . . . .117 

Love, . . . . . 118 

SONNET to Ugie Water, . . .119 

To a beautiful Motherless Infant, . 120 

To Mary, . . . . . ib. 

Written on Visiting Mr. T. D., Cruden, 121 
On the Death of Burns, - . 122 

Written with a pencil, while standing beside 
Flaxman's Statue of Burns on the Calton 
Hill, Edinburgh, . . .123 

To May, .... ib. 

For New-Year's-day, . . . 124 



Vlll. CONTENTS. 

SONNET: Pity's Tear, ... 125 

To Cecilia, Infant Daughter of Mr. R— K— , ib. 
To a Friend, . . . .126 

On the death of a Friend, . . 127 

Suggested on reading a Sonnet addressed to 

a Poetical Friend, by S. W. Partridge, ib. 
Written on leaving Dundee, . .128 

To Winter, . . . . 129 

To Hope, . . . . . ib. 

EPISTLE to Mr. A. H., Aberchirder, . 131 

To A. R., Esq., Peterhead, . .138 

To Mr. William Cruickshank, . 148 

To Mr. G. M., D s, . . .155 

To. Mr. J. Milne, Author of " The Widow 

and her Son," .... 160 
To Mr. W. Thorn, Inverury, . . 164 

To Sir Michael Bruce, Baronet, . . 167 

From Mr. A. Harper, to the Author, . 171 

SONG: Peggie Munro, . . . .176 

The Gowden Ring, . . . 177 

The Glen o' the West, . . .178 

Jeanie's Lament, . . . 179 

Rovin' Tarn, . . . .181 

The Faithless Whisper, . . 182 

Ye needna be Courtin' at me, . .184 

The Rose of Inverugie, . . 185 

The Disappointed Sailor, . . . .186 

The wee Blind Roguie, . . 188 

The Sailor's Departure, . . .189 

Peggie's Soliloquy, . . . 190 

O Tell me will ye go, 191 

To Mary, . . . .192 

Woman's Witchfu' e'e, . .193 

On Her Majesty's Second Visit to Scotland, 195 
The Widow's Lament, . . 197 

Farewell to my Jean, . . . 198 



TO THE READER. 



Instead of prefacing this little volume of Poems in 
the usual manner, it has been suggested by several 
friends, that I should introduce it to the notice of 
my readers by laying before them a brief sketch 
of my own life. 

Auto -biography is perhaps the most difficult sub- 
ject that a writer can attempt. If he be not an 
" out and out" egotist, when he sits down to write 
his own history, however much he may feel himself 
at home in one respect, he will soon discover that 
the subject is far from being congenial to his na- 
ture. If he be a modest man, his sense of modesty 
will place him on the rack of self-restraint, and 
cramp or confine his ideas in every line ; while 
his sense of what is due to himself, may at times 
compel him to rebel againt his modesty, and mo- 
desty thus outraged will whisper in his ear that the 
public will laugh at his folly and presumption. If 
he wishes to do full justice to his subject, he must 
necessarily touch many sensitive strings in his own 
bosom, which were placed there, not to be harped 
upon in the sight of the world, but to be tenderly 
touched in his hours of solitude and retirement : 



since his own heart can alone respond to their vi- 
brations, and sympathize with their inherent feel- 
ings and emotions. A man may, however, write 
his own life, so far as external scenes and circum- 
stances are concerned, without being considered an 
egotist. 

Without entering farther on internal feelings 
and emotions than, to his own sense of modesty, 
may appear pardonable, if not absolutely necessary, 
there are external scenes and circumstances, acci- 
dents and events, in the life of every man who has 
mingled with society, known to others as well as to 
himself, which he may not improperly, and with- 
out incurring the charge of egotism, record and 
publish. Whilst complying with the wish and ad- 
vice of my friends, it is this, and no more than this, 
that I now intend to do, by prefacing my little vo- 
lume with a brief account of my early years, and 
such circumstances in after life as have been thought 
not devoid of interest by those friends and acquaint- 
ances in my own locality, to whom they are well 
known, and whose sympathies they have warmly 
excited. 

I was born in the parish of Fraserburgh, in the 
county of Aberdeen, on the first day of January 
1814 ; my father being at that time a farmer there, 
and in comfortable circumstances ; but by a law- 
suit, then pending between him and the proprietor 
of his farm, he became the poorest man in the pa- 
rish; the expences of litigation, though the case was 
finally decided in his favour, having absorbed his 
whole property. At Whitsunday, 1814, he remov- 



ed to the parish of Longside, in the same county, 
and there hired himself as a day-labourer ; and in 
that parish the greater part of my life has been 
spent. I had the good fortune to be blessed with 
one of the best of mothers, who early taught me 
my duty to Gfod and to the world ; and her coun- 
sels were zealously seconded by her own mother, 
who was an inmate of our little haUan from the 
time my father left Fraserburgh till her death. 
(xeaxxie was indeed a tutor to me of no ordinary 
kind, and from her I received the first rudiments of 
education. Her memory was an inexhaustible ma- 
gazine of choice sayings, anecdotes, proverbs, tales. 
and old ballads, and my mind became stored with 
many of these, long before I had learned to spell 
my own name. I can yet vividly recall the bright, 
sunny, summer evenings, when I have set myself 
down beside her on the green, gowany banks of 
Ugie, and listened with delightful emotions to her 
ever-varying anecdotes and tales : or the long, dark 
winter nights when I have given up my whole heart 
to her songs and ballads, ere the cares of life had 
yet crowded around me, or the sunshine of child- 
hood passed away. Even when the dark clouds of 
care and sorrow have, in after years, at times low- 
ered gloomily over me, how often has the remem- 
brance of the peaceful past cast a ray of light and 
of hope upon my most cheerless prospects, and 
brightened despondency with a transient gleam of 
sunshine and serenity ! Childhood is a sweet sea- 
son — a delicious dream, which we often pause to 
ponder upon when it has passed away for ever. 
a 2 



It is then that we lay the foundation whereon to 
build the future nuin, it may be, for good or for 
evil. Childhood is the spring of life, and the fruits 
of its autumn, if only in embryo, are then formed 
in every bud or blossom which it nourisheth ; and, 
although it is not yet universally admitted that 
songs or ballads, however innocent and natural, can 
be considered as wholesome nourishment for a young 
and tender mind, I am convinced that much of my 
own future character has been derived from those 
I learned in infancy. Often in mature years have 
I found my virtues strengthened, or my vices re- 
strained, by the recollection of an artless song or a 
touching tale ; while the thought that I first heard 
them from the lips of some beloved one, then rest- 
ing in the " narrow house, " has of itself exercised 
a salutary influence over me, and insensibly led me 
to choose the right path, when otherwise I might 
have chosen the wrong. But, to proceed : After 
having my mind stored by Gkannie, with a vast 
accumulation of her own stock of knowledge, about 
the seventh or eighth year of my age, I was sent to 
school by an uncle, a brother of my mother, who 
died soon afterwards, and I had scarcely ceased to 
bewail his loss, when I was taken from school ; my 
parents being unable to continue my education any 
longer. I had been taught the rules of arithmetic, 
and had even made some small progress in mathe- 
matics ; but my chief delight was in reading " Scott's 
Beauties of Eminent Writers," and it was while so 
employed that I first felt my heart responsively 
thrilling to the beauties of poetry. " Gray's Elegy," 



M Parnell's Hermit,"' " Campbell's Hohenlinden," ex- 
tracts from his " Pleasures of Hope," from ^Thom- 
son's Seasons." from Scott, Byron, and Burns, were 
then imprinted on my young and sensitive heart in 
glowing characters, never to be obliterated till I 
am no more. My education on the whole amounted 
to nothing more than what is common to almost all 
the peasantry of Scotland — a few years of tuition 
at a country school, often interrupted by bad health; 
for I have been from my infancy subject to frequent 
attacks of headache, and also to pains in my ears ; 
accompanied at times by a partial defect in my 
hearing ; which latter complaint has terminated in 
complete and, it may be, incurable deafness. 

I do not exactly remember, but I think I must 
have been about eleven years of age, when I was 
taken to the feeing market at Longside, and en- 
gaged to tend cattle belonging to a farmer who re- 
sided at a distance of about five miles from my fa- 
ther's house. My pasture-ground was a wide and 
wild range of a heath-clad hill, on the north side 
of the hills which separate the parishes of Long- 
side and Cruden. For a few weeks, it was to me 
a wilderness — a prison without walls, or roof, save 
the blue vault of heaven. I felt at times lonely 
and sad, and sighed in secret for the green banks 
of Ugie. My master and mistress were, however. 
very kind people, and the lone hill soon became a 
paradise. The summer passed swiftly away, and 
found me contented and happy. At times, indeed, 
I was cold and wet. but a contented mind has the 
jewel of earthly happiness within itself. Martin- 



6 

mas came, and I found myself by my mother's side, 
tendering her my scanty half-year's wages. That 
was, indeed, a happy moment to me. Where were 
the wet, the cold, and the comfortless days now ! 
All forgotten in the smile of love which she cast 
upon me. there is no smile like a mother's smile I 
It is one of the bright and beautiful things which 
light up the path of life as we pass onward to the 
grave, and there only is it extinguished and forgot- 
ten. 

For a few months during winter, I was again 
at school, for the last time. Early in the ensuing 
spring, I returned to my former occupation — that 
of tending cattle, and was fortunate in obtaining a 
situation near home ; being engaged to the farmer 
from whom my father rented his cottage. My al- 
loted pasture lay close on the north bank of the 
Ugie, where the grass was green and plentiful, and 
and if ever flesh and blood enjoyed perfect felicity 
under the blue firmament of heaven, I certainly did 
it there. Some one of our poets beautifully sings : — 

" 'Tis sorrow's soothing nourishment 
To feed on pleasures past," 

and I have often experienced the truth of the sen- 
timent, as well as admired its beauty. How often 
have I fed upon the remembrance of that sunny 
summer, and the joys which were then mine ! How 
often have I been there in imagination, when the 
cares of life covered me in after years as with a 
thick and gloomy cloud! Even now, while I write 
at a distance of nearly 150 miles from that para- 



dise of my youth,* the same simple ideas, the same 
delicious emotions, and the same deep reverence 
toward all things, which the great Creator of na- 
ture has called into existence to adorn and beautify 
the world, are again conjured up, with the same 
dreaminess of delight, and the same sensations of 
admiration, love, and wonder, which accompanied 
them when they first stirred in my youthful bosom. 

" Laugh on, but there are souls o' love 
In laddies herdin' kye." 

So sung Robert Nicoll, one of Scotland's sweetest 
poets, and his song is not less true than beautiful. 
I am, however, lingering too long on the dreamy 
days of auld langsyne : yet it is quite natural to 
linger in a beautiful garden, when all without its 
walls is, in comparison, a cold and barren waste ; 
or at best only presenting a calm and cultivated 
spot here and there. I do not, however, mean to 
affirm that all the rest of my life has been a wilder- 
ness without a flower. There has been, at least, 
one daisy, and one rose — Contentment and Hope — 
whose sweet fragrance has never failed to revive 
my drooping spirits, at all seasons, and in all 
places, even during the keenest frosts of adversity's 
winter. 

I continued in farm service up to my twentieth 
year, serving many different masters throughout 
Buchan, and have to confess that, as I grew up to- 
wards manhood, I became a wild and thoughtless 
youth ; seldom, very seldom indeed, looking beyond 

* This was written in Edinburgh. 



8 

the present moment, or even examining my own 
heart to see if there was aught that savoured of 
virtue, or a thought of my mortality or immortality 
there. I even might have forgotten that I had a 
heart, so completely was it drowned in its own 
fathomless fountain of thoughtlessness, had not the 
death of my grandmother — the earliest instructor 
of my youth, and the fondly-loved friend of my 
riper years — awakened me to a state of serious and 
sorrowful meditation. She died, at the age of 
eighty-six, while I was in my nineteenth year. In 
the Poem entitled " The Cottar's Sunday," I have 
endeavoured to give a faithful sketch of grannie, 
and shall therefore pass on to another and less 
melancholy subject. Before I was fully twenty- 
years of age, I was married to my present wife, and 
after remaining for a short time longer in farm 
service, became a day labourer. 

We had not much of what is commonly called 
the warld's gear when we became one, but industry 
and frugality are in themselves a fortune. Things 
went on wonderfully well, and might have continued 
to do so, had health continued mine. Disease soon 
brings poverty and privation to the fireside of the 
labouring man, and deprives him of all his little 
comforts and happiness ; however resigned and con- 
tented he may happen to be by natural disposition. 
Nature is too strong for Reason in some cases ; nor 
can Religion itself always inspire even the most 
virtuous mind with unmurmuring resignation, in 
such trying circumstances. How can a sick man 
look contentedly from his bed of thorns, when he 



beholds a beloved wife and children weeping around 
him, and not a morsel of food to satisfy the crav- 
ings of nature, nor one penny m the wide world 
that he can honestly call his own ! Contentment 
in such a case, would be a crime against all the 
feelings of humanity, and against religion itself. 
The man who does not love and feel for his own 
offspring has no claim to the title of Christian. 

I was married in July, 1833, and it was in au- 
tumn, 1835, while serving for a few weeks in the 
parish of Belhelvie, about twenty miles from my 
home, that a small red spot made its appearance 
upon one of my eyes, and increased in size and pain 
daily till the eye became almost blind. I served 
out my time with much pain ; went home at Martin- 
mas, and put myself under medical treatment, 
which proved of no avail. The other eye soon be- 
gan to exhibit the same symptom, and in a few 
weeks I was involved in ail but complete darkness. 
This was a trial for a young man of a lively and 
hopeful disposition, and one of the most severe kind 
too. My spirits died within me ; my general health 
gave way, and being accustomed to laborious exer- 
cise, the sinews of my knees and ancles became so 
much contracted, that, at the end of six months, 
when my sight was again restored, I found myself 
a helpless cripple. Restoration of sight was, how- 
ever, new life to one of my disposition, and Hope, 
the sweet seraph, began to whisper new tales of 
happiness and health. I knew that exercise, how- 
ever painful in the meantime, was essential to the 
restoration of my wonted faculties, and, with the 



10 

assistance of a staff, I indulged it, perhaps too 
freely at first, but soon became so far renovated as 
to think and speak of going to work. It was the 
season of peat-casting, and, I remember well, I went 
to the moss of Cruden with my staff in one hand 
and my spade in the other. I was not indeed able 
to wheel the peats to the lair, but I managed to 
cast fifty barrowfulls the first day, and gloried in 
my own strength when I made out an hundred the 
next. For the last six months I had earned nothing, 
and now, in two days, I had gained Is. 6d. ! the 
very thought was enough to effect a complete cure 
on my then stiff and feeble limbs. I continued to 
go on with my work, improving in strength slowly ; 
but what I wanted of strength was made up by the 
ardour of a willing and contented mind, and that 
ardour prompted me to overestimate and overtax 
my strength. 

I lost my hearing in the course of a single after- 
noon, while working on that same desolate and 
dreary muir ; and it was the general opinion of the 
people in the neighbourhood, that I overworked and 
hurt myself, and thus caused my deafness. It is, 
however, useless to look back with regret, or blame 
my own folly for my misfortune. Necessity was 
then supreme ruler over me : I willingly obeyed its 
commands, for the sake of those I love, and have 
never repented that I did so. Simultaneously with 
the loss of my hearing I was seized with pain and 
dizziness in my head, which, for the next three 
years, rendered me as helpless as the most confirmed 
drunkard, and even to this day is not wholly era- 
dicated. 



11 

I could mention many painful trials which this 
ible in my head brought upon me, but shall con- 
tent myself with recording one circumstance which 
caused me more bitter sorrow than all the rest of 
my Bufferings put together. Soon after I became 
deaf, my mother died, and as soon as I learned the 
melancholy tidings. I resolved on going to my fa- 
ther's house to pay the last tribute of respect and 
duty to one who had been to me more than a mo- 
ther. Light-headed and lame as I was. I immedi- 
ately set out on my melancholy journey ; reached 
my destination, and after sitting one night beside 
her corpse, on the following day proceeded on foot 
to Fraserburgh — a distance of about fifteen miles — 
that I might have the mournful satisfaction of see- 
ing her remains laid in the church-yard of that 
place. I was too lame and light-headed to think 
of being able to keep foot with the funeral proces- 
sion for such a distance, and therefore preferred 
going to the place of interment on the day previous ; 
especially as I had some relations there, with whom 
I could stop for the night. After many falls by 
the way, I at last reached Fraserburgh, weary and 
wo-begone, and was hirpling and staggering* along 
one of the streets, when a constable belonging to 
the town thought proper to seize me ; mistaking me, 
no doubt, as a drunken vagrant. Being wholly 
deaf, I knew not a word that he uttered, and yet 
he would not believe me when I told him so : doubt- 
less imagining that I was feigning deafness as an 
excuse for not answering his questions. After 
giving a satisfactory account of myself, I got clear 



12 

in time to see the remains of my mother laid in the 
grave ; but the bitter bitterness of that hour, com- 
bined with the mournful duty I was engaged in, 
and the fatigue of the journey, so overpowered me, 
that after being conveyed home I was unable to 
leave my bed for weeks. This happened in Novem- 
ber, 1836, and between that time and the beginning 
of harvest, 1838, I may say I gained nothing ; for 
though I made several attempts to resume work, I 
only rendered myself more helpless ; the task I 
imposed upon myself being too much for one so en- 
feebled by sickness. By the beginning of harvest, 
1838, I was so far renovated that I engaged to a 
farmer in the neighbourhood, and was enabled to 
work until it was finished; at which time I was 
seized with a fever, and was confined to bed during 
the whole of the following winter. It would answer 
no good purpose, were I to give a detail of the suf- 
ferings of my wife and children during these years 
of sickness and privation ; yet they can never be 
effaced from my memory, nor the thoughts they 
inspired altogether forgotten. When able to leave 
my bed, and often when I was not, I endeavoured 
to amuse myself, and in some degree managed to 
wean my thoughts from brooding over my afflictions, 
by attempts at verse-making. Poetry had always 
been one of my chief delights, even when a child, 
and my first attempt at rhyming was made during 
my blindness, in the course of the winter, 1835-6. 
I then found it a source of amusement, and even 
pleasure ; and now that I was deaf, the complete 
silence with which I was surrounded did not in the 



13 

least degree detract from the same feelings of gra- 
tification. On the contrary, as deafness continued 
year after year, I became more studious, and more 
ardently attached to my hobby. I also became 
much devoted to reading, bnt was often sadly puzzled 
how to procure books, and have often walked a dis- 
tance of fourteen miles to borrow a volume ; and 
that too on days so exceedingly wet and stormy 
that my fellow-labourers could not go out to work. 
Chambers* Edinburgh Journal, with occasionally a 
look of a weekly newspaper, was, however, for a 
long time almost my whole reading. When I had 
nothing to read, I wrote ; and in the spring of 1839 
published a few Poems for the first time ; necessity 
compelling me to do so, in the hope of realizing as 
much profit as keep my famishing family from ab- 
solute starvation. This hope was so far realized ; 
but the publication was of no permanent benefit, 
and my health becoming somewhat improved, I 
struggled on, through debt, ditches, and disease, up 
to the autumn of 1843, when I was again thrown 
oif work by a return of the before-mentioned trouble 
in my head. During the winter of 1843— 1, I earned 
nothing ; and getting a little better in the spring of 
1844, I published another small volume of my 
Poems, which falling under the notice of the ami- 
able and benevolent lady of Dr. Jack, Principal of 
King's College and University, Aberdeen; she, along 
with the venerable Principal, and Dr. Daun, became 
so deeply interested in my behalf, that through 
their benevolent exertions, and the kindness of their 
friends, I have been enabled to bring out the pre- 



14 

sent edition; to indulge in many comforts which 
were previously beyond my reach, and also to con- 
tinue the education of my children, which otherwise 
I could not have done. I need not say that I am 
grateful for all this, and I fondly hope that, by my 
future conduct, I shall he enabled to show myself 
in some respect not unworthy of the Christian 
kindness with which they have comforted and hon- 
oured me and mine. The generosity of many more 
friends demands my warmest gratitude ; but as it 
is perhaps improper to mention names, I shall only 
assure them, one and all, that I shall ever retain a 
fond and grateful remembrance of their benevolent 
exertions in my behalf. 

"With regard to the merit or demerit of my Poems, 
I say nothing. It is not the proper province of an 
author to criticise his own work ; but I may be 
allowed to state that most of the pieces in the pre- 
sent little volume have already been favourably 
noticed by the press, and also well received by the 
public in general. It has indeed been privately 
hinted that " The Cottar's Sunday 1 ' is too close an 
imitation of Burns' " Cottar's Saturday Night," and 
I do not mean to assert that it is altogether free 
from imitation ; but I humbly think it contains, at 
least, as much imitation of Nature as it does of 
Eurns. Pope — himself both a poet and a critic of 
the first order — tells us in one of his notes to "Ho- 
mer's Iliad," that " imitation does not hinder in- 
vention ;" and I think it will be generally admitted, 
even by the most fastidious critics, that this asser- 
tion is quite true. The great difficulty of avoiding 



15 

imitation lies in the fact, that Nature, in most of 
her phases, is unchanging'. One poet writes a poem 
wherein he imitates Nature, and is immediately ap- 
plauded as a master ; while another writes one on 
a similar subject, and though he imitates the same 
unchanging Nature, instead of receiving praise, re- 
ceives unmitigated censure; being condemned as an 
imitator of the former poet only. I do not think 
that this can properly be considered " poetic jus- 
tice."' I, however, leave my little book in the hands, 
and to the judgment of the public ; and, in conclu- 
sion, beg to repeat my acknowledgment and thanks 
to all who have assisted me to bring it under the 
notice of so honourable and impartial a tribunal — - 
trusting, at least, that it contains nothing opposed 
to the interests of true religion or morality. 



Peterhead, June, 1845. 



COTTAR'S SUNDAY. 

INSCRIBED TO MRS. PRINCIPAL JACK, 

KING'S COLLEGE,, ABERDEEN. 



How goodly 'tis to see 
The rustic family 
Duly along the church-way palh repair ! 
The mother neat and plain, 
Leading her ruddy train, 
The father pacing slow with modest air ; 
"With honest heart and humble guise they come 
To serve the Lord of Hosts, and bear his blessing home. 

Mant, 



Feiexd of my lowly muse, friend of my heart ! 
Accept the tribute of a gratefu' breast ; 
In simple strains sincere, unsmoothed by art, 
I sing to you the cottar's day o' rest, 
That holy day by Heavenly Wisdom blest 
An' set aside, that sinfu' man may draw 
Near to his God, the bread o' life to taste, 
An' wean his soul frae warldly cares awa ; — 
sing that hallowed day as spent in cottar's ha'. 

B 



18 

how delightfu' dawns that blissfu' morn, 
"Whan nature wears her loveliest robes o' green I 
Whan fairest flow'rets ilka field adorn, 
An joyous June leuks laughin o'er the scene I 
The cottar frae his ha' comes forth alane, 
An' doun his rigs or kail-yard saunters slow ; 
Wi' thoughts contemplative, wi' soul serene, 
He marks the dewy daisies round him blow, 
While, borne on wings o' love, his feelings heaven- 
ward flow. 

Nae ither morn to him is half sae fair, 
Nae ither morn frae labour sets him free ; 
His gratefu' heart he tunes to silent prayer, 
As slow he wanders o'er the dewy lea ; — 
That Heaven wi' him and his that day may be, 
An' onward lead them in the narrow way ; 
That each may bow the heart as weel's the knee, 
Deep in his soul he fervently does pray, 
An' higher mounts that prayer than mounts the 
lark's sweet lay. 

Then, turning round to view that lowly ha', 
For whose lov'd inmates thus he intercedes, 
He sees his partner dear wi' hawkies twa, 
Whilk o'er the craft to some hained rig she leads ; 
Wi' quickened steps, to meet her on he speeds, 
An' tentie tethers ane or baith the kye ; 
Leuks gin the branJcs be sicker on their heads, 
For fear o' scaith to barley, aits, or rye — 
Syne bids his Katie mark the lovely mornin' sky. 



THE COTTAR'S SUNDAY. 19 

Now, side by side, they slowly saunter liaine, 
While, pointin' to his richly-rising grain, 
The gratefu' cottar tells the happy dame 
How gentle dews, an' last week's timely rain, 
Will mak', at least, anither bow their am : — 
" An', how thankfu' ought we baith to be 
To Him who bids us thus in hope remain 
That ' daily bread' to us an' ours he'll gie ! 
Say, can we e'er repay his love to you an 5 me !" 

Thus meditative, as they onward move, 
They mark the beauties a,n' the blessings near ; 
Their thoughts the same, while gratitude an' love 
(How in their hearts, warm-thrilling an' sincere ; — 
For love is lealest far in hearts that fear 
Its sacred source — the Grod of love, all pure, — ■ 
An' gratitude, its own twin-sister dear, 
Will never deign to dwell, never sure ! 
In hearts that never lov'd, nor felt love's heavenly 
power. 

The wee-things now demand a mither's care, 
As blythesome frae their lowly beds they rise ; 
Nae nurse, nae governess stands ready there — 
A parent's hand their ilka want supplies ; 
Ilk little Sunday suit, neat folded, lies 
In press, or drawer, or auld ancestral chest — 
Hamespun an' plain ; yet, how they a' rejoice, 
An' deem themsel's like lairds or ladies drest, 
Whan weekly on they're put, to grace the day o' rest ! 



b 2 



20 THE COTTAR'S SUNDAY. 

The anxious father sees their kindling pride, 
An' checks the germ o' vanity while green ; 
The modest mither, too, will hauflins chide, 
Their little hearts frae love o' dress to wean, 
Yet weel she likes to see them neat and clean, 
An' weel she plays her part to keep them sae ; 
An' aften tells that claes, however mean, 
If duly wash'd and bleach'd on sunny brae, 
Are braw enough for bairns to wear on ony day. 

Beneath a load o' three-score years an' ten, 
"WT staff in hand, an' earthward bendin' sair, 
Auld grannie now comes hoolie creepin' ben, 
An' seeks the neuk whare stands her auld arm- 
chair, 
A cushion, saft and clean, awaits her there, 
An' doun she sits : the tvee-things shaw their pride 
By welcome words an' warm affection's air — 
The language o' the heart that winna hide, — - 
For blythe are they, I trow, whan seatit by her 
side. 

Wi' palsied hand she strokes ilk little head, 
An' tells them how to spend the holy day, 
That Jesus rose victorious frae the dead, 
To conquer sin an' death, an' live for aye : 
Her earth-sick heart delights to lead the way 
To that blest land where all her hopes repose ; 
The life to them that seems so sweet and gay, 
To three-score years an' ten seems full o' woes, 
An' all her thoughts are fixed beyond its earthly 
close. 



THE COTTAR'S SUNDAY. 21 

Meantime, the cottar spreads the sacred book, 
An' reads, wi' solemn air an' reverence due, 
The sufferings or the love of Him who took 
The sting- from death, an' Satan's power o'erthrew; 
Or how he lives, our mediator true, 
And comes again to call his children home, 
When dies the sun amid th' ethereal blue, — 
When fades the moon in yonder starry dome, 
And the big. blazing world shall sink in nature's 
tomb. 

Then swells to heaven their morning prayer an' 

praise, 
Warm frae the sacred altar o' the soul ; 
Nae heartless hypocritic sounds they raise, 
Cauld as the icebergs clust'ring round the pole ; 
Their simple hearts, in unison, extol 
Their heavenly Father — source of light an' love, 
Who bids the pond'rous planets onward roll 
Through regions of immensity above, 
An' marks an' feeds the while the meanest worms 

that move. 

To Him they tell their sins, they tell their wants? 
Lament their weakness an' their wayward will ; 
Extol His grace, His mercy — all He grants 
Their little cup o' pleasure here to fill ; 
From Him they seek continuation still 
Of His long-suffering, never-dying love, 
And all the gifts that flow from Sion's hill ; 
Not that, through works, their title they can prove, 
But for His sake alone who died and lives above. 



22 THE COTTAR'S SUNDAY. 

Then, rising from their lowly cottage floor. 
The thrifty mither links the kettle on, 
For they 'gainst Sundays only can secure 
The weel-kent herb that grows 'neath China's sun : 
Wi' guid ait cakes, or butter'd barley scone, 
They now rejoicin 9 taste its halesome bree ; 
" Like olive plants about the table roun'," 
The happy wee-things are allow' d to pree, 
"While grannie gets her share, an' proud, I trow ? is 
she. 

The breakfast o'er, their thanks to heaven they 

raise, 
An' ance again for Sion's courts prepare ; 
For now the cottar seeks his Sunday claes, — 
His blue, best suit that time has made threadbare, 
The bustlin' wine brings them ben ance mair, 
An' gars them leuk as decent as they may, 
His napkin white she ties wi' cantie care, 
Syne buckles on hersel', without delay, 
The snaw-white muslin gown that graced her wed- 
ding day. 

Their mean attire lat grandeur ne'er despise, 
Nor from their meek communion stand apart, 
As if devotion dwelt in costly guise. 
Or pure religion in the tailor's art I 
Jehovah marks the raiment o' the heart, 
An' their's may be in glorious robes arrayed ; 
While aft there lurks unseen, a deadly dart 
Beneath the raiment outwardly displayed, — 
A dart to pierce the soul when nature's debt is paid. 



THE COTTAR'S SUNDAY. 23 

But now the cottar sees the neebors roun' 
Advancin' slowly to the house o' prayer, 
An' Katie to the kail-yard hastens down, 
The ne'er-forgotten nosegay to prepare ; 
Nae flowers wi' foreign names, far-famed an' rare, 
But bonnie gems that love fair Scotia's clime, — ■ 
The pink, the lily, an' the daisy fair, 
Sweet-William, tulips, mary-gold, an' thyme, 
Wi' honeysuckle sweet, an' pansies in their prime. 

Wi' love's pure pride, she wales the reddest rose 
To deck the bosom of her partner dear, 
An' mindfu' o' the duty that she owes, 
On grannie's withered hand bestows its peer : 
Sweet gem ! to her fond heart it seems to bear 
Some dear memorial o' auld langsyne, 
Some Sabbath sweet, some summer evenin' clear, 
Some raptured hour or day o' bliss divine, 
Enjoyed whan love was young, ere life had felt 
decline. 

The dream is o'er : the bairnies round her knee 
Begin to covet an' to claim the prize, 
For now they're left — the youngest twa or three — 
Till afternoon wi' grannie to rejoice : 
" The parent pair," wi' elder girls or boys, 
Are gane to worship God an' seek his grace. 
Wi' modest mien an' nature-loving eyes, 
Alang the flower-fringed path they slowly pace 
On to the house o' prayer, Jehovah's dwelling-place. 



24 THE COTTAR'S SUNDAY. 

Wi' niournfu' air they tread tlie kirk-yard green, 
An' mutely moralizing as they go, 
Approach the lowly grave o' some lost frien', 
To drap a tear, or mark a floweret blow : 
Meet place for meditation — -nae vain show 
Attracts the e'e that ponders o'er the tomb ; 
Eternal truth seems whispering from below :— = 
" "Where'er thy hopes, where'er thy wishes roam. 
Here, for a while, vain man, must be thy narrow 
home." 

Perhaps a father's or a mother's grave 
A sister's or a brother's there may be ; 
Perhaps their ain loved babe a tear may crave ? 
That lately smiled upon its mother's knee, 
Or prattled pretty thoughts, wi' infant glee, 
To win her kiss, or grannie's smile o' love ; — • 
The floweret dies beside the withered tree, 
An' new-fledged warblers, fluttering through the 
grove, 
Aft feed the ruthless hawk, down darting from above ! 

But, hark ! the auld kirk bell, wi' cymbal chime. 
Proclaims aloud to ilka listening ear, 
That ance again has come the appointed time 
To meet the God o 9 grace wi' holy fear ; 
The cottar frae his cheek wipes aff the tear, 
An' treads the sacred floor wi' reverent awe ; 
Syne seats himsel' aside his Katie dear, 
On some back seat that stands against the wa', 
Nae cushioned pew has he, wi' crimson buskit braw. 



THE COTTAR'S SUNDAY. 25 

There, fondly feasting on the solemn scene, 

Their hearts released frae earthly coil an' care, 

Wi' meek, attentive ear, they forward lean 

To catch the word, or join the impressive prayer; 

Or, half iinparadised, some sacred air. 

In concord close wi' Sion's holy lays, 

They warble forth, defying Satan's snare, — 

Nae power has he while heavenward thus they 

raise 
The sweet, slow, solemn notes that sound Jehovah's 

praise. 

Perhaps a sacramental Sabbath shines, 
And blest Immanuel's love's before them laid, 
(Is there on earth, between its far confines, 
A scene surpassing this to man displayed ?) 
The symbol of His flesh before them spread, 
The emblem of His blood 'mong sinners shared ! 
Blood for the sake of guilty mortals shed, 
A flood of love, warm-streaming from the Lord ! 
And free to each and all around that sacred board ! 

"WT deep humility an' holy awe. 
The trembling cottar lifts the cup divine ; 
An' down his manly cheeks the big tears fa ? , 
As reverently he tastes the bread art wine; 
His Katie by his side, wi' soul in pine 
For secret sins that God alone may know, 
Strives wi' the flesh, receives the solemn sign. 
Syne hides her face upon the table low, 
An' sabs for help divine to keep her new-made vow, 



26 the cottar's suxday. 

Perhaps again, in this wide world of tears, 
On that blest feast they'll ne'er together fare, 
But, free frae a' their doubts an' a' their fears, 
In new Jerusalem met to part nae mair, 
Wi' blest Immanuel's self rejoicin' share 
The heavenly wine, delicious, rich, an' new ;— 
For he will drink with his disciples there 
Whan all the assembled saints an' angels too, 
Sing hallelujahs sweet, and praises round Him 
strew. 

Meantime, the cottar's thoughts are centred there, 
And all his soul is melted into love ; 
Gone is the world, with all its toil and care, 
He prays that nothing may his purpose move, 
For he has vowed to serve the Lord above, 
And rises from the table singing sweet 
His praise : his full-toned voice seems to improve, 
So fervent is his soul — for heaven so meet — 
All, all his love is laid at blest Immanuel's feet. 

The solemn service o'er, a happy pair, 
Communing with themselves they hameward go ; 
While balmy round them breathes the evening air, 
The sun's declining rays now slanting low : 
The wee-things meet them wi' a fervent glow 
0' infant love, that knows nor fraud nor guile, 
An' blythely tell how grannie did bestow 
Her hoarded gifts, their little hearts to wile 
Frae care an' thinkin' lang, an' keep them blest the 
while. 



THE COTTABS SUNDAY. 1 { 

Meanwhile, wi 5 hoary locks, the age-bent dame 

Stands in the evening sun before the door. 
An* while tl s welcome mammy haine. 

Recalls to mind the happy days o' yore. 
Whan she, fir blest, wi" him that's now no more, 
Returning frae the holy house o' prayer. 
Had wont to meet her ain blythe infant care, 
That now are parted far. some here, some there. 
Some in the green kirk-yard, an' some she kens-na 
where. 

Sad wi' the thought, she seeks the ingde neuk. 
An' heaves a secret sigh unkent to a'. 
Syne "bids the cottar "bring the holy "book. 
Am read the tut an' psalms ere gloaniin' IV ; 
Close to her chair he willingly does draw. 
The soul-inspired mandate to obey: 
The we&-thmgs, standing in a ruddy raw. 
Their leal-loved grannie's reverent leuks survey, 
As down she bends her ear. attention deep to pay, 

But now the father turns wi* aspect sage. 
An' bids them bring the Catechism ben; 
New thoughts at ance their little hearts engage, 
The holy creed an' the commandments ten, 
Their questions a* are spiered frae en' to em. 
An' Virtue's seeds implanted in their mind ; 
For brawly does the carefu' cottar ken. 
In ilka soil, regardless o' the wind. 
'Tis best to sow in Spring, if fruit he wish to find. 



28 THE COTTAR'S SUNDAY. 

Meantime the mither, listening a' the while, 

Prepares the supper sweet wi' cantie care, 

An' ronn' their little hoard, wi' gratefu' smile, 

The happy family again repair, 

An' soon the halesome food amang them share, 

0' cottar's toil the produce an' reward ; 

Then, kneeling low, they raise their evenin' 

prayer 
To heaven's all-bounteous, eyer-listening Lord, 
As sung by Scotia's loved and never-dying bard. 

Thus, closing slow the sweetly solemn scene, 
Together now they sink in halcyon rest ; 
Devotion lingering in their souls serene 
Whan downy sleep hath ilka eyelid prest ; 
So sinks the sun in yonder glowing west, 
The day's bright glory lingering o'er his bed, 
As if, in robes of light, an angel blest 
Were waiting there, some ransomed soul to lead 
From earth's sin-shrouded vale to glory's fountain- 
head. 

Lang may the sound of heartfelt prayer an' praise 
From Caledonian cottages arise ; 
An' lang may Sion's holy, heavenly lays 
Be sweetly warbled to the listening skies ; 
In this fair Scotia's richest treasure lies, — 
Lang may she guard the gem with holy zeal ; 
An' may she ne'er her toil-worn sons despise, 
Her fame an' honour rest upon their weal, — 
They of her glory are, an' aye will be, the seal. 



ROBIN AND MAET. 



PART I. 

See ye yon bit canty hallan 

Jam'd against the broonry brae ? 

Do ye deem't a fairy dwallin 5 ? 
Little ferlie tlio 5 ye may. 

Half conceal'd amang the brambles, 

Scarcely to be seen ava ; 
Ower the lum the rantree wambles. 

Surely 'tis a fairy ha'. 

Up the western sunny gable, 
Iyy creepin' to the lum, — 

Baudrins lurkin' there on evil, 
Watchin' till the sparrows come, 

On the riggin', perch'd fu' proudly, 
Chanticleer ilk mornin' craws, 

Wauk'nin' echo, clear an' loudly, 
Frae her hidden rocky ha's, 



30 ROBIN AND MART. 

Richt anent the fairy entry, 
Baskin' in the autuinn sun, 

Faithfu' Collie sittin' sentry, — 
Like the pope upon his throne. 

Eastward frae the eastern gable, 
Stan's an iyy-theekit "byre, 

Thence a barn, an' syne a stable, 
Next a stack o' peats for fire. 

Down the brae an' southward slopit, 
Mark the garden bloomin' fair, 

Fenc'd wi' bourtrees neatly cropit ; — 
Hark the sparrows chirpin' there ! 

In the shadeless sunny centre, 
Stan's a dial upon a pole, 

Cent'ries there a residenter, 
Haudin' up its face to Sol. 

Up the brae aboon the biggin', 
Whins, an' broom, an' fern ye see 

Risin' to the rocky riggin, — 
Hark the niayis' minstrelsy ! 

There the fairy freaks o' Nature 

A' the senses overpower ; 
Nought's the wark o' human creature, 

Save the auld romantic tower. 

Rocks an' rents, an' roots gigantic, 
Crags an' caves compose the scene ■ 

Here an' there a tree romantic 
Clingin' to the sapless stane. 



ROBIX AND MARY. 31 

Rooks an' rabbits, bats an' badgers, 

Hae their habitation there, 
Owls an' pyots — countless lodgers, 

Nameless in my rhymin' ware. 

But the glen in a' its glory 

Weel may claim the muse's care : 
See ye Paradise afore ye ? 

Surely it was ne'er sae fair ! 

Mark the wee bit nameless burnie, 

Jumpin' — joukin' — slidin' slee ; 
Deck'd wi' flowers at ilka turnie, 

Shadit wi' the willow tree. 

Chyles it seems to sink in Terra ; 

Whyles it seems to tyne its way ; 
Whyles it seems owercome by sorrow, 

Shrinkin' frae the licht o' day. 

"Whyles it seems fu' blythe an' rantin' ; 

"Whyles it seems to turn again 
Backward to its flow'ry fountain, 

Laith to lea' the lovely glen. 

Turn your e'en to flow'ry Flora, 

Breathin' balm, an' buskit braw, 
Cheerin' eident Agenora,* 

Up atween ye an' the ha' 

There a rich, a peerless maiden, 

Agenora's affspring she, 
Wi' the fruits o' autumn laden, 

Ghristen'd Ceresf ower the sea. 

* The goddess of Industry. f The goddess of Agriculture, 



32 ROBIN AND MARY. 

Wad ye woo the maid to-morrow, 
"Wad ye daut her on your knee, 

Kneel ye down to Agenora, 
Ceres may be won by thee. 

Sighs, an' tears, an' vows thegither, 
Wadna pierce the maiden's ear ; 

But embrace her yieldin' mither, 
Syne the maid may drap a tear. 

Yet yer love ye weel maun master, 
Dinna dicht her tears awa ; 

Hug the mither aye the faster, 
Soon ye'll see a fountain fa'. 

Threaten death to sulky sorrow, 
Draw a rung to ilka blast, 

Aye stick close to Agenora,— 
Ceres may be thine at last. 

Meantime view the lan'scape shinin', 

See again the canty ha' ; 
Nature there wi' art combining 

Wyles the wildert sense awa. 

Wha may be the happy owner 
0' that hallan an' the glen ? 

Surely happy hearts are yon'er — 
Surely pleasure but an' ben. 

Ablins, reader, it may be sae ; 

Ablins no — there's nane can tell : 
Whyles the heart may be uneasy, 

Whan the cheek wad feign it well. 



ROBIN AND MARY. 33 

GKldit seats arc aftcn galling 

Aft a smile conceals a tear ; 
Happiness may slum the liallan 
Elest wi' nature's beauties near. 

Sunny skies an 5 sylvan scenery 

Ilka tearless e : e maun please ; 
Yet remember, gaudy finery 

Seldom baps a heart at ease. 

In the Tree bit shapeless shielin', 

Placed amid the inoorlan' snaw. 
Hapinness may be revealin' 

Joys the palace never saw ; 

While amid the sweets o' nature, 

Sunny braes an' sylvan vales, 
Stanrpit deep in ilka feature, 

Saddest sorrow aften dwells. 

To my tale, whate'er betide it : — 

Hail Apollo, hail, again ! 
Come an' teach me how to guide it, 

Gie me muses nine or ten. 

Up Parnassus' slippery steep noo, 

We maun ettle to aspire, 
There the treniblin' strings to sweep noo, 

0' the Caledonian Ivre. 



34 ROBIN AND MAKY. 



PART II. 

Fifty towmons ower yon hallan, 

Silently liae sped awa, 
Sin' the day tliat Robin Allan 

First began its key to thraw. 

Fifty towmons past November, 

Robin an' bis Mary May, 
First adorned its little chamber. 

On their happy weddin' day. 

Little gear had they atween them. 
Little cash they had to spen' ; 

Nane they hopit to befrien' them, 
Whan they settl'd i' the glen. 

Baith were come o' parents humble, 
Baith were born to toil for life ; 

Yet at Fate they didna grumble ; 
Baith were blest whan man an' wife. 

Robin erst had been a ploughman, 
Sairin' 'mang the farmers roun' ? 

Sober, steady, unassumin' — 
Foreman aye at ilka town. 

Mary too had been a servan', 

Single-hearted an' sincere, 
Never ance frae duty swervin' — 

She was likit far an' near. 



ROBIX AND MARY. 35 

Artless as the lo'esonie lanimie, 

Eideut as the honey bee, 
Like the simmer moruiu' balmy — 

She enamour 'd ilka e'e. 

Kind to ilka livin' creature, 

Free frae affectation vile ; 
Never deein'd she toil a fetter — 

Labour 'd on, an' sang the while. 

Aft when a' the lave were sleeping 

To the chain' er she wad steal, 
For the herdie's doublets dreepin', 

An' ere mornin' dry them weeL 

She had aye a sigh for sorrow, 

Aye a tear where tears were due. 
Aye a han', tho' seldom orra, 

Charitable deeds to do. 

Such was Mary, when around her 

Wooers flockit by the score ; 
But they a', save Robin, found her 

Careless o' their lover lore. 

Him she lov'd, an' lord sincerely, 

Doatit on his vera name, 
Thocht about him late and early, 

Sigh'd an' dream'd, an' nursed her flame. 

Soon the weddin'-day they set it, 

Soon it came an' pass'd awa ; 
Little din there was about it — 

See them noo at Broomyha', 

c 2 



36 ROBIN AND MARY. 

First when there they cam' thegithery 

Nature unmolested lay ; 
Whins, an' broom, an 5 fern, an' heathen 

Closely coyer'd a' the brae ; 

Bogs aside the burnie buockit^ 
Sprots and rashes thickly grew. 

Ilka strugglin' spring was chockit— 
Fient a fur aneath the plough. 

A', except the wee bit garden, 
Nurs'd by Nature's wildest will, 

Never brocht the laird a farden, 
Save a hare he whyles micht kilL 

Neebours roun', whan Robin teuk it ? 

Swore he wadna sit his lease, 
Shook their heads an' sagely leukit 

Ane anither in the face, 

" Wait a while," quoth Geordie Cadger^ 
Ower a dram wi' Willie Wise, 

" Wait a while— I'll lay a wager, 
Robin soon will rue his prize : 

" Five-an'-thirty barren acres, 
Free although they be a while, 

Winna fill the bairnies bickers, 
Day an 9 nicht although he toil. 

" Seven years will soon flee ower him, 
Syne the rent will be to pay ; 

Little kens he what's afore him— 
Wae's my heart for Mary May !' ? 



robin a:<d mart. 37 

"Here's yer health," quotli Willie, smilin', 

M Lat him labour as lie may, 
It's better sittin' here than toilin' 

Yon'er on a barren brae. 

u Kent ye muckle Charlie German, 

Grreave a while at Mains 0' Glen ? 
Ance he teuk a tig 0' farmin' — 

Soon was roupit, but an' ben." 

" Ay," quoth Geordie, " weel I kent him— 

Hech ! he was an awfu' chiel : 
Few could stan' a day anent him, 

At the scythe or at the flail. 

" Ance out ower a dyke I watch' d him, 
Trenchin' bauks to Saunders Dick ; 

Twa 0' Robin wadna match'd him, 
On the spade or on the pick. 

u Mercy, man ! I wish ye'd seen him ; 

Ilka awfu', powerfu' whack, 
Gart the park for acres roun' him, 

Like a very earthquake shak !" 

" Weel I trow ye man," quoth Willie, 

Coupin' up the ither glass ; 
u Yet he shortly saw his folly, 

Whan he gaed to cauld Glenlace." 

iC Ay," cried Geordie, " sae will Robin. 

Young and dauntless tho' he be ; 
Soon ye'll see him at the jobbin', 

Scourin' stanks like you an' me. 



38 ROBIN AKD MARY. 

" Empty boats are easy swampit : 
His is tooin enough I fear ; 

Soon he'll find his coggie skrimpit — 
Water winna pass for beer." 

These, an 9 ither sage reflections, 
Pass'd atween our drouthy pair ; 

"While aroun' in a' directions, 

Kindred cracks were far frae rare. 

Meantime Robin, naething dauntit, 
Yokit briskly to the brae ; 

Soon had greens an' cabbage plantit, — 
Saw them thriyin' ilka day. 

Perseverance was his maxim, 
Ever since he kent hinisel' ; 

Sloth gat never leave to tax'im, 
Whatsoever else befel. 

Sair he toiPd, but aye was cheery: 

Independence was his aim, 
An' he found a heart in Mary, 

Pantin' daily for the same. 

Here we for a while maun lea' them : 
Ither scenes demand our care. 

Whan we next come back to see them. 
Fortune's pranks may gar ye stare, 



R0BIX AND MARY. 39 



PART III. 



Charlie German, wham we spak' o', 
Lang had courtit Mary May ; 

An', of course, he gat the knack o 5 
Hatin' Robin nicht an' day, 

Muckle ill he said about him, 
Muckle fury on him spent ; 

Hintit that a raip wad suit him. 
Better far than aught he kent. 

Ilka time he met wi' Mary. 

Robin's character he tore ; 
Thinkin' thus his point to carry, 

Blackest falsehoods Charlie swore. 

"Whan, in spite o' a 3 his knavery, 
Mary soon her han' bestow'd, 

In a fit o' fiendish bravery, 

Vengeance wi' an aith he vow'd. 

She, by falsehood's black inventions, 
"Wham he thocht to lead astray, 

Shelter 'd frae his vile intentions, 
Lust to Malice soon gave way* 

Yet he artfully conceaFd it, 
'Neath a hypocritic wing ; 

Secret in his soul he seal'd it, 
Deadly as the serpent's sting. 



40 



ROBIN AND MARY. 



Nane see prone to pity Mary, 
Doom'd to toil her days awa ; 

0' their strictures few sae wary, 
Whan they spak' o' Broomyha'. 

Yet an unco alteration, 

Soon was seen in Charlie's leuk ; 
Whyles he pictur'd deep vexation, 

Whyles he startit, whyles he shook. 

Neebors roun', amazed to see him 
Chang'd sae sudden an' sae sair, 

Wonder'd what on earth could gie him 
Sic a load o' seemin' care. 

Weel they kent his savage nature ; 

Tet they cou'dna guess the cause 
That had chang'd his ilka feature, 

Made him waur than e'er he was. 

Mony baseless, vague conjectures, 
Pass'd amang them, he and she ; 

Mony dialogues an' lectures, 
Fruitless as a withered tree. 

Meantime, frae his occupation, 

Charlie aft wad hide awa', 
Plungin' deep in dissipation, 

'Mang the knights o' Bacchus' ha'. 

Drinkin', swearin', fechtin', wenchin', 
'Mang creation's vera wreck, 

Nursin' aye his foul intention, 
Robin's ruin to effeck. 



ROBIN AND MARY. 

Nicht air day for weeks tliegitlier, 
He was seldom seen at liame — 

Yexiir sair a widowed niither, 
"VTha was aye a prudent dame. 

Sic a sudden alteration, 

On her only earthly stay. 
Caused her inuekle lamentation, 

Hastened on her dying day. 

Aften tears o' secret sorrow 

Trickled down her withered cheek, 

When he left his spade or barrow, 
Vilest company to seek. 

Lanely greethr by the ingle, 

At the eerie midnight hour. 
Sighs an' prayers she aft wad mingle. 
Till she sunk upon the floor. 

Health and strength forsook her daily ; 

Yet she strove to seem the same, 
Thinkin' that his fit o' folly 

Soon wad be owercome by shame. 

Vain delusion ! deep an' deeper 
Charlie plunged into the mire ; 

Careless o' the widowed weeper, 
Aye he nursed his foul desire. 

TVha can paint a niither s bosom. 
Pierced by the son she bore ? 

Saftest feelings, wha disclose 'em, 
Thus in pieces rudely tore ? 



41 



42 ROBIN AND MARY. 

He wha thinks lie can, may paint her 
In her cottage where she stood, 

Doomed to see her affsx^ring enter 
Reekin' red wi' human blood ! 

Backward starts the muse in terror, 
Nature shudders at the scene ; 

Yet that sickening sight o' horror 
Met a widowed mither's een. 

Charlie German, drunk an' dreepin', 
Entered at the midnicht hour, 

Like a madman frantic leapin' 
Ben ward on his mither's floor. 

What had been his nicht's transaction, 
Afterwards may be reyeal'd ; 

But his mither's deep distraction, 
Meantime maunna be conceal'd. 

Had she seen his eyelids steekit, 

Never mair to ope again ; 
Had she seen him stiff an' streekit, 

'Twadna gien her half sic pain. 

" Charlie, Charlie !" twice she utter'd, 
Startin' breathless frae her seat ; 

" Charlie I" ance again she mutter'd, 
Sinkin' senseless at his feet. 

Why again to sorrow wake her ? 

Why reveal her reason fled ? 
Seven days, an' death did take her 

To the mansions o' the dead. 



ROBIN AHB -MARY. 43 



Itlier seven saw her Italian, 

Emptied by a public sale ; 
An' her cow by Robin Allan, 
Bought an* led across the vale. 

Wi* the produce in his pocket, 
Charlie sought the nearest shore, 

Soon was in a hammock rockit, 
Where Atlantic billows roar. 

In Jamaica soon he pantit, 

Whare we leave him for a while, 

By his guilty conscience hauntit, 
Far frae Britain's bonnie isle, 



PART IY. 



Wake, my muse, an' weeping warble ; 

Wake again an' sadly sing : 
Scenes wad pierce a heart o' marble. 

Yet maun weigh thy weary wing. 

Dark December's gloomy mornin', 
Slowly dawn'd on Broomyha' ; 

Boreas, a' discretion scornin', 

Fiercely whirl'd the driftin' snaw. 



44 ROBIN AND MARY. 

Robin Allan, busy thrashing 

Thocht "what sailors bad to dree ; 

An' tbe tbocbt came on him flashin' — 
Charlie German 's on the sea. 

'Mang the sheaves his flail he shot it, 
Sighin', sought the ingle stane : 

" Mary — I had maist forgot it — 
Charlie German sail'd yestreen. 

" Sic a day ! For a' his drinkin' — 

A' the fash he gae to you, 
Yet I canna keep frae thinkin' 

"What he has to suffer noo. 

" Friday gloamin whan we partit, 

After I had paid the cow, 
Sad he seemed an' broken-heartit, 

Scarcely could he say Adieu. 

" Downward to the grun he leukit, 

Shunnin' ilka body's e'e, 
An' the thocht, I canna brook it, 

What he noo may hae to dree. 

" Gude gae wi' him ower the water, 
Guard an' guide him ilka where ; 

Whare on earth 's the human creature, 
Free frae failin's less or niair ?" 

Mary sighed, an' sadly leukin', 
Press'd her bairnie to her breast : 

" Robin, Charlie's leuk was skookin', 
Seven towmons past at least. 



EOBIN AND MARY. 45 

" Towmons five ere we were married, 

First I kent liiin at Glenlace : 
Ilka body said lie carried 

Roguery stanipit in his face. 

" A' his deeds we hinna heard o' — 

Glide forgie me for the thought — 
But I fear we'll soon get word o' 

Some mischief that Charlie's wrought." 

Robin sighed an' fell a-pickin', 

Frae his hose the curlin' calf — 
Hark ! against the door cam knockin' 

Some unceremonious staff. 

Quickly but the house he trampit, 

An' the door did open fling ; 
Three chieis forward on him jumpit, 

In the name o' George the King ! 

Judge his sudden consternation, 

Fancy Mary's reason maim'd, 
By the awfu' information — 

" Robin, ye're for murder blamed !" 

Fancy billows in her bosom, 

Heayin' like the stormy sea;, 
Seek her image in the blossom, 

Struck by lightning frae the tree, 

Fancy a', for, like the painter, 

Here the muse maun veil her grief, 

An' to jail wi' Robin venture, 
Catchin' at the sad relief. 



46 KOBLN- AND MABY. 

Him, whase ilka word an' action 
Sprang frae virtue's sacred source ; 

Him, whase very warst transaction 
Ne'er had rakit up remorse. 

Him a prisoner we trace noo. 

Far frae bonnie Broomyha', 
Doom'd, though innocent, to face noo 

A' the rigour o' the law. 

Frae his Mary's heart they tore him, 
Forc'd him frae his bairnie dear, 

To the county jail they bore him — 
Ne'er in pity shed a tear. 

In a dark an' dismal dungeon, 
Fast in irons there he lay, 

Deeper doun in sorrow plungin', 
Ilka sad succeedin' day. 

Prison'd thus on fause suspicion, 
Innocence was aye in store ; 

Yet his Mary's sad condition, 
Grnaw'd his bosom to its core. 

She, his only earthly treasure, 
Left alane her waes to weep, 

Langsome days an' nichts to measure, 
By her sabs o' sorrow deep. 

Ablins noo 'mang strangers cravin' 
Shelter to her hameless head, 

Ablins in a madhouse ravin', 
Ablins laid amang the dead. 



ROBIN AND MARY. 47 

A' the ills that e'er befel him, 

Half sic pain could never gie ; 
Chains and fetters he could thole 'em, 

But sic thochts he couldna dree. 

Yet he daily ower them ponder'd, 

Mair than ower his fetter 'd feet ; 
Daily, nichtly wept and wonder'd, 

Gin they e'er again should meet. 

Daily in his dungeon kneelin', 

Prayers he offered up sincere, 
A' his inmost soul revealin', 

Mixed wi' resignation's tear. 

Four lang months — his trial waiting 

Thus in prison Robin lay ; 
Thochts o' Mary ne'er abatin', 

Aften for her did he pray. 

"Whare she was, or dead, or livin', 

Naething certain reached his ear, 
Tho' by a' his means he'd striven 

After information clear. 

Never thocht he she was pinin', 

Scarce a fathom frae his side, 
In the nearest cell adjoinin', 

There her trial to abide. 

Yet she languisli'd in that same place, 

Like himsel', for murder blamed ; 
Or, at least, as his accomplice — 

Just as like to be condemned. 



48 ROBIN AND MARY. 

On their innocence relyin', 

Here we'll leave the hapless pair, 

Till the nmsie, sadly sighin', 
Trace the cause o' a' their care. 



PART V. 



Little drouthy Davie Riddle, 
Dwalt a mile frae Broomyha'— 

Aften left his hame to fuddle 
Days, an' weeks, an' months awa. 

'Neath Britannia's ensign, Davie 
In his younger days did stan', 

An' aboard the Royal Navy, 

Fought where Parker led the van. 

In the Dogger-hank engagement, 
'Gainst the Dutchmen fechtin' keen ; 

Snap ! — without the least presagement— 
Davie's arm awa was taen. 

Frae the service thus disabled, 
Hame to Scotland he did steer ; 

Gat a pension duly tabled, 
Ilka quarter o' the year. 



BOBIN AXD MARY. 49 

Maist iu Bacchus' ha' he spent it, 

As we hintit auce afore ; 
Ne'er to gill nor jug was stentit, 

Whan he met a drouthy core. 

Alice upon a pay-day gloamin'. 

He wi' Charlie German met ; 
Baith sat down to tankards foamin'. 

An' to toddy reekin' het. 

Davie, ne'er to truth restrickit, 

Tauld the wonders he had seen — - 
How he lmd three Frenchmen kickit, 

Single bandit, a' alane ; 

How that day his arm he lost it, 

'Stead o' shrinkin' frae the fray, 
At a Dutchman's head he toss'd it, 

Shoutin', " Death or victory !" 

Charlie plied him wi 5 the drappy, 

Call'd anither mutchkin ben ; 
Davie, gettin' fu' an' happy, 

" Fought his battles o'er again." 

Three lang days they spent thegither, 

Bathin' deep in Bacchus' bluid, 
Pledgin' health to ane anither, 

Syne they hameward teuk the road. 

Mirk the nicht o' cauld November. 

Fierce an' loud the tempest blew ; 
Neebors roun' had sunk to slumber, 

As the drunkards hameward drew. 



50 ROBIN AND MARY. 

Hapless Davie, little dreadin' 

Sic a sudden fatal fa', 
'Neath his comrade soon lay bleedin', 

On the brae o' Broomyha'. 

Lang an' teuch the struggle lastit — 
Baith were bleedin' in the strife — 

Roun' an' roun' they turn'd an' twistit, 
Till poor Davie lost his life ! 

Charlie, ance victorious ower him, 
Seized his pension, ilka plack, 

Downward to the burnie bore him, 
Plung'd him in, an' hame did pack. 

There, aside the weepin' willows, 

Davie's mangled body lay, 
'Neath the burnie's waefu' billows, 

For a fortnicht an' a day. 

On the day it was discover'd, 
Charlie, to the sea had fled ; 

An' suspicion, quickly hover'd 
O'er poor Robin's hapless head. 

Soon as he in jail was fetter'd, 

Fast the information flew ; 
Far an' near it soon was scatter'd, 

Like the news o' Waterloo. 

Some, in pity, wadna trust it ; 

Some believed it, ilka word ; 
Ither some to Mary hastit, 

Consolation to afford. 



ROBIN" AND MARY. 51 

"Mang the rest, a worthless strumpet, 

(Jenny Barker was her name,) 
To the Shirra quickly trampit — 

Swore that Robin was to blame ! 

A' her hellish deposition, 

Basely wi' her name she signed ; 
Nane had then the least suspicion, 

What was lurkin' in her mind. 

Charlie German weel had paid her — 

She his doxy late had been ; 
An', tho' conscience sure gainsaid her, 

She resolv'd to stan' his Men'. 

On her hameward route she stoppit, 

For a while at Broomyha', 
An' ahint the aumry droppit 

Darie's watch, e'er Mary saw, 

Ower the hellish deed rejoicing 
Aff she trampit through the snaw, 

Thocht it wad be maist surprising 
Grin poor Robin scap'd the law. 

Thus, sin' first the subtile serpent, 

Wan the day in Eden's bower, 
Mony a deadly dart's been sharpen'd, 

By his hypocritic power. 

Little kens the sinless lanimie, 

(Emblem meet o' Mary May) 
As it dances roun' its mammie, 

^Vhan the wolf upon't may prey. 
d2 



52 ROBIN AND MART. 

Innocence has nae suspicion — 
Never dreads or harm or blame. 

Judgin' by its ain condition, 
Deems the warld a' the same. 

Thus it was wi' mournfu' Mary, 
Frae the least suspicion free, 

By the ingle sittin' sorry, 
Jenny's guilt she didna see. 

Soon a party frae the city, 

Searched the house o' Broomyha', 

Found the watch, an' bound by duty, 
Took poor Mary May awa. 

Soon in prison strong they lodg'd her, 
Yet she didna shed a tear : 

Guilty as the warld judg'd her, 
She had sweetest comfort near. 

What though man was thus besieging 

Baith her life an' liberty, 
Innocence an' dear religion 

Sets the fetter'd captive free. 

Calm, within her gloomy station, 
Doun she knelt in fervent prayer ; 

Syne, wi' child-like resignation, 
Trustit to her Father's care. 

Yet she deeply felt for Robin — 
Lang'd to see him ance again, 

Aften thought she heard him sobbing 
Broken-heartit, a' alane. 



ROBIN AND MARY. 53 



Then it was, on pity's altar, 

Fountains frae her e'en did fa' — 

Then wad Resignation falter 
Haply for an hour or twa. 

Reader, shall we forward venture ? 

Hark the trumpet's brazen blast ! 
See the judges slowly enter — 

Trial day arrives at last. 



PART VI. 



April, show'ry, saft, and sunny, 
Chid awa the ling'rin' snaw ; 

Buds, an' brier, an' daisies bonnie, 
Sprang again at Broomyha'. 

Ower the dewy meadows prancin', 
Back an' fore, an' up an' doun, 

Sportive lammies, lightly dancin', 
Chas'd their neebors roun' an roun' 

Birdies sang on ilka bramble, 
Midges danc'd in ilka glen, 

Bairnies on the braes did tumble, 
Wrinkl'd age grew young again. 



54 ROBIN AKD MARY. 

Lasses, modest, chaste an' pretty, 
Sought again the " trystin' tree," 

Echo answered mony a ditty — 
But my hero, where is he ? 

Hark the awfu' solemn sentence ! 

Robin Allan's doom'd to die. 
Jenny Burker, past repentance, 

Heard the same without a sigh ! 

Mary, too, poor, hapless creature, 

Heard her doom pronounc'd the same. 

Yet she didna change a feature — 
Only bow'd her feeble frame. 

Thus their days on earth were numbered- 
Hope itsel' grew hopeless noo ; 

Yet, though Justice lang had slumber'd, 
Ghiilt was doom'd to meet its due. 

Frae the trial hame returnin', 

Guilty Jenny tint her way, 
Deep she plumpit bog an' burn in, 

Led by darkness thus astray. 

Early on the day succeedin', 
By some lab'rers she was found 

In a quarry, bruis'd an' bleedin', 
Scarcely fit to raise a sound. 

To the nearest house they bore her, 

An' a Doctor soon did ca' ; 
But 'twas plain he couldna cure her — 

Life was ebbin' fast awa'. 



ROBIN AND MARY. 55 

This she felt ; an' conscience leapin' 

Frantic frae its deadly sleep, 
On her guilty soul cam' sweepin', 

Like the waves against the steep. 

Yesterday, Temptation bore her 

Robin's life to swear awa ; 
Death an' judgment close afore her, 

She, to-day, wi' terror saw. 

Cover Guilt wi' hugest mountain — 

"Wrap it in the darkest night — 
Plunge it in the deepest fountain, 

Soon or late it comes to light. 

Ere her latest breath departit, 

Jenny a' her guilt revealed : 
Folk wi ? deep amazement heard it, 

After 'twas sae lang conceal'd. 

Think on Robin's deep emotion, 

Whan the news to prison flew, 
Forth he pour'd his heart's devotion, 

Purer than the mornin' dew. 

Mary's feelings, scornin' leisure, 

Flutter' d through an' through her breast ; 
Hope an' fear, an' pain an' pleasure, 

Fast on ane anither prest. 

Like the sun-scorch'd pretty blossom, 

After showers refreshin' fa', 
Hope at last within her bosom, 

Bloom'd at bonnie Broomyha'. 



56 EOBIN AND MARY. 

There again she claspit Robin 
To that bosom chaste an 9 pure, 

Noo nae mair wi' sorrow throbbing 
But wi' pleasure rinnin' ower» 

There again her bairnie bonnie ? 

Snrilin' as in days gane by, 
She received it frae its grannie^ 

WT a mither's ecstasy. 

There again, aside the ingle, 
Lowly kneelin' on the floor, 

Robin's prayers an' hers did mingle^ 
As they daily did afore. 

Meantime, ower the billows sailing 
For Jamaica's sultry shore, 

Justice, at the last preyailin', 
Doun on Charlie German bore. 

Need we sing about's arrestment — ■ 
Tell how lang in jail he lay — 

Paint him in his hindmost vestment ? 
No ; we only this shall say : — 

Ere a towmon's termination, 

After truth to light was brought, 

Charlie's " Last Speech an' Confession^' 
Robin for a penny bought. 

As he read them to his Mary, 
Frae his e'en the tears did fa' ; 

Yet his heart was thankfu' — very* 
He was justified by law, 



BOBIN ASD MARY. 5? 

Five-an'-forty years are fled noo, 
Sin' that happy day he saw ; 

" Lyart locks" adorn his head noo, 
Whiter than the purest gnaw. 

Yet he's hale an' happy-heartit, 

Blest wi' sons an' daughters ten- 
Three, indeed, are noo departit, 
Seven yet in life remain. 

Robin an' his brither Francie, 

Baith are crafters up the glen ; 
Mary, Jean, and bonny Nancy, 

A' hae got the best o' men. 

Benjamin, the youngest brither, 
Hauds at hame his father's plough ; 

Bell assists her feeble nrither, 
Noo, wi' age, begun to bow. 

What wad (reordie Cadger think noo ? 

Were his head aboon the clay ? 
Wad he frae his wager shrink noo, 

Gin he saw that bonnie brae ? 

Ance as ony moorlan', barren, 

Corer'd noo wi' gowden grain, 
Ripe an' ready for the shearin'— 

Robin hasna toil'd in vain. 

After a' that's come an' gane noo, 

Independent there he dwells, 
An' to neebors roun' the glen noo. 

He this storv aft en tells. 



58 KOBIN AKD MARY. 

Fame of late's begun to eke it, 

Wi' the luck o' bonnie Bell- 
She a bride was lately beukit ; 
Wha's she gettin', can ye tell ? 

Wha but honour'd Gilbert Lobban. 

Heir o' bonnie Birkenshaw ; 
An' he's made my hero Robin, 

Laird for life, o' Broomyha', 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES, 



A DREAM ; 



OR STANZAS ADDRESSED TO P — W~ — — , BE- 
FORE THE AYRSHIRE FESTIVAL IX HONOUR OF BURNS, 
AUGUST 6th, 1844. 

Dear Sir, where winding Ugie rows 

Its bonnie stream through Buchan's howes, 

An' nionnie a wild-flower sweetly grows, 

Scarce seen by ane, 
Save lovers leal whan evenin' vows 

They pledge unseen : 

Here, in a wee bit nameless ha', 
Frae fame an' fortune far awa, 
Contentit wi' my humble fa' 

'Mid toil an' bustle, 
For towmonds five I've tried to blaw 

The Scottish whistle, 



60 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

What though I never heard its soun' ? * 
An' what though tuneless ilka tune ? 
My Tibbie's smile was a' the boon 

* I tried to win, 
Sae blest I blew frae June to June, 
For love an' fun. 

Nae thoughts had I aboon my lot ; 

A bonnet braid, a russet coat, 

A bannock an' a sweat-earned groat 

Were a' my care, 
Wi' shelter in this humble cot, 

I sought nae mair. 

At times indeed I heayed a sigh 
For some spare brass a book to buy, 
An' aften loot my caup stand dry, 

Rather than want it ; 
Yet, on the whole, as time ran by, 

I lived contentit. 

My bosom thus wi' peace inyestit, 
Was ne'er by earthly dool infestit, 
Till ae day lately that I feastit 

On news frae Ayr, 
That something roun' about it twistit, 

Like threads o' care. 

I read, wi' happy heartstrings beatin', 
That Scotia's sons had plan'd a meetin', 
To honour ane whase sangs can sweeten 

Life's cares an' pain, 
An' gie his sons a hearty greetin' 

On Collets plain. 

* The author here alludes to his deafness. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 61 

" And shall not I," I thoughtless cried, 
" Be there to bid them weel betidr, 
And shaw my love, baith deep an' wide. 

For Coila's bard ?" 
My Tibbie shook her head an' sigh'd — - 

Alas ! 'twas hard. 

I e'ed my coat baith patch'd an' bare ; 

I felt my pouches- — nought was there ! 

" The lang Scots miles" tween this an' Ayr 

I thought upon, 
Then, slowly yielding to despair, 

Began to moan. 

" Alas !" I cried, " 'tis Fate's decree,— 
Though dear his matchless sangs to me,-— 
That I shall never, never see 

That wish'd-for boon. 
Nor greet wi' love his children three 

By deathless Doon." 

Nae former care, nor want, nor wae, 
Had e'er unman'd my bosom sae ; 
I sigh'd awa the langsome day, 

Syne sought my bed, 
An' heartless, hopeless, down did lay 

My aching head, 

Man's langest cares repose at last : 
King Morpheus, faithfu' to his trust, 
His downy mantle o'er me cast, 

As now it seems, 
An' led me to, or ablins past, 

" The land o ? dreams." 



62 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

Methought I wandered by the Doon, 
" Beneath a bright an' bonnie moon," 
An' saw the fairest flowers o' June 

Bloom at my feet, 
Whan Burns appeared wi' holly crown, 

An' did me greet. 

" All hail ! my son," he smiling said, 
While love unfeign'd his looks portray'd, 
" Thou'rt welcome here, whate'er has made 

Thy feet to roam ; 
With me each brother of my trade 

Shall find a home." 

Wi' love-fraught, deep sincerity, 
" I come," I cried, " to honour thee ; 
I come to join the jubilee 

Now close at hand, 
And welcome home thy children three 

To this thy land. 

" For Scotia's sons hae sworn to meet 

In this thy far-fam'd, loy'd retreat, 

'Mang woods an' wild flowers blooming sweet. 

Thy sons to see, 
And pour, warm-gushing at their feet, 

Their love to thee. 

" Oh ! Doon's fam'd banks, sae fresh an' fair, 
Are dear to Scotsmen ilka where, 
An' ever-living, laurel'd Ayr, 

Till hills remove, 
Shall claim frae them a parent's share 

0' lealest love. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 63 

"An ' Logan Braes,' an' ' Banks o' Coil,' 
While Love delights in Beauty's smile, 
Frae Scotia's heart nae care, nae toil 

Shall ever sever, 
An', eke, ' the braes o' Ballochmyle' 

Shall bloom for ever. 

" Nor these alane to thee belang : 

niony a stream flows through thy sang ! 

Slow, sweet, or clear they glide alang 

Wi' nature's ease, 
Like summer zephyrs whisp'ring 'mang 

Fair Coilccs trees. 

" Scenes of thy love, scenes of thy care, 

And scenes of inspiration rare, 

And scenes where thou did'st dauntless dare 

Fell Poverty ! 
what from Scotia's heart shall tear 

Their memory ! 

'-- There, on thy Pegasus careering, 

To fame's high temple forward steering, 

Wi 3 love an' pride she saw thee veering 

As fancy led ; 
Still in thy path memorials rearing, 

That ne'er shall fade. 

" By nature's fire alone impell'd, 
Thine ardent bosom heav'd and swell'd ; 
Breaking the strongest bars that seal'd 

The book of fame, 
Then, on its brightest page, thou kneel'd. 

And wrote thy name. 



64 MISCELLANEOUS TIECES. 

" Now, on imagination's wing, 

Thy matchless muse aloft would spring, 

Then sweeping every thrilling string 

Of Scotia's lyre, 
From Fancy's highest hills did bring 

Immortal fire. 

" Now, with a patriot's feryour burning, 
Oppression, fear, and danger spurning ; 
Now, with a lover's zeal, returning 

To nature's breast, 
And o'er a " mountain daisy" mourning 

In numbers chaste. 

" Now on thy country's glory dwelling, 
A hero's soul within thee swelling, 
Anon, in weeping lines bewailing 

Thy Mailie dead, 
Or, in the name o' Death, assailing 

Poor Hornbook's trade ! 

" Now teaching Bruar Water clear 

To warble sweet in Athol's ear 

Its wants an' waes, for many a year 

Ere seen by thee, 
For whilk a thousand hearts revere 

Thy minstrelsy.* 

* It is a well known fact that the Duke of Athol lent a favourable ear 
to the " highest wishes" of Bruar water, as they were sung by Burns, and did 

" shade its banks wi' towering trees, 

An* bonnie spreading bashes." 

For which act, it is natural to suppose, " a thousand hearts'* have revered 
both the poet and the noble Duke. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 65 

- ; Anon, at Beauty's witching shrine, 
Thou pour'st thy numbers, half divine, 
Stealing a heart in ilka line, 

Wi' magic power, 
Till frien's an' faes alike are thine, 

Braid Scotlan' ower. 

u Thou dipp'st thy pen in tears of woe, 

And sweetly sad thy numbers flow, 

Like virgin's prayers, when kneeling low, 

Wi' streamin' eyes, 
Beside the bed where, pale as snow, 

Her lover lies. 

" Still glowing with seraphic fire, 
Thou strik'st a loftier, holier lyre, 
Amid the cottar's humble choir, 

On bended knee, 
While angels hovering round admire 

Thy minstrelsy. 

" well may Scotia's sons combine 
To honour thee and honour thine, 
Great chieftain o' the northern Nine ! 

'Tis but thy due, 
For mony a garland didst thou twine 

Around her brow. 

" And, taught by thee, her sons of toil 
With independence tread the soil ; 
Scorning alike the frown or smile 

Of grandeur great, 
But nursing in their heart the while 

Thv numbers sweet. 



66 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

" many a bosom hast thou taught 

To scorn fell Fortune's tricks as naught. 

And many more full-heaving fraught 

"With patriot pains, 
To guard the land that Wallace fought 

To save from chains. 

u See yonder cottar, taught by thee, 

He bends to Heaven the willing knee ; — 

Hating alike hypocrisy 

And hypocrite, 
He pours his soul's sincerity 

At Jesus' feet. 

" Burns ! thy leal-lov'd Caledon, 
Well may she honour such a son, 
And bind the laurel thou hast won 

Around thy head, 
There to remain till time be done 

An' Nature dead. 

" And proud am I to meet thee here, 
And pour my praises in thine ear — 
But see !" I cried, " we're drawing near 

The glorious thrang, 
Here's Eglintoun and Wilson dear — 

I'll close my sang." 

At sight of Burns, th' assembly rose, 
And rose the long and loud huzzas — ■ 
So loud, that Nature's steadfast laws 

Disturbed were, 
And I awoke, to weep my woes. 

Far, far frae Ayr. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 67 



LINES 

WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF " THE BOOK OF 
SCOTTISH SONG," ON RECEIVING- A COPY FR03I A 
LADY. 

Let misers grasp their hoarded gold, 
Let drunkards quaff their wine ; 

Let fame the hero's deeds unfold, 
Auld Scotia's sangs are mine ! 

The miser's gold can never buy. 
Nor drunkard's wine reveal 

The rapt'rous thrills of purest joy- 
That here my heart can feel. 

For every earthly care and wo, 

This, this shall be my cure ; 
Light be the giver's load below, 

And calm her dying hour ! 



e 2 



68 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



STANZAS 

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A FRIEND, ONE OF THE 
AGENTS FOR " THE SHIPWRECKED FISHERMEN AND 
MARINERS' BENEVOLENT SOCIETY." 

'Twas winter, and wildly the wind and the waves 
On the rude cliffs were beating and breaking ; 

With the tempest's might, in the darkness of night. 
The towers and the turrets were shaking. 

The sailor's bride on her lone couch lay, 
And she thought on the terrible ocean ; 

And at every shock of the wave on the rock, 
Her fond heart was fraught with emotion. 

Ah ! who shall relate all the pangs that she felt, 
Or tell how her bosom was quailing ? 

For, afar on the deep, where the tempest did sweep, 
She knew that her true love was sailing. 

She felt that the billows, outrageous and rude, 
"Were wrathfully roaring around him ; 

And she rais'd to the sky her tear-streaming eye, 
And pray'd, " from danger defend him !" 

That prayer on the wings of sincerity rose, 
And was heard by the tempest's Controller ; 

The ship struck the strand, but an angel at hand 
Spread his wings o'er the shelterless sailor. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. fi9 

On the tempest-swept shore, from his home far away, 

Bereaved of his all and a stranger, 
He sunk in despair, but a friend too was there, 

To shelter and shield him from danger. 

'Twasf//(? Shipwrecked Mariners 9 Friendtlmt was near, 

A maid of benevolence tender ; 
And her mantle she spread o'er the sad sailor's head, 

As deep o'er his woes he did j)onder. 

She lifted him up, and he gazed through a tear, 

New hope in his bosom arising ; 
She cloth'd him, she fed him, on shipboard she led him, 

And homeward she sent him rejoicing. 



THE ORPHAN'S DREAM. 

I dreaded of my mother, my mother dear, 
And she seemed alive and young ; 

And she wore the clothes she wont to wear 
When round her knees I hung. 

The wincey gown of a bonnie brown, 

And the napkin of tartan hue ; 
And the mutch she wore was white as of yore, 

When she dautit my infant brou. 



70 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

E'en the mantle gray round her shoulders lay, 

As she sat by my father's side, 
And I forward ran, and kissed her hand, 

With a wild and childish pride. 

Then she took me up on her saft, saft knee, 
And her breast was a lowe o' lore ; 

! her words were like angel's songs to me, 
And I seemed in the bowers aboye. 

She pressed me close to her bosom pure, 

And I gazed in her saft blue e'e ; 
Then she kissed my cheek — 'twas heaven, sure, 

That kiss she gave to me ! 

She smiled on my sisters — that smile I'll mind, 
And she smiled on my brother dear ; 

And she said, " bairns ! be loving and kind 
Whan I'm nae langer here." 

Then I gazed again in her bonnie blue e'e, 
And a tear was trembling there — 

My e'en grew dim that I couldna see, 
And I wakened in deep despair. 

1 sigh'd whan I thought on the cauld, cauld grave, 

Whare she lowly lies at rest ; 
But the caidder ivarlcl the bairns maun brave 
That her arms hae fondly prest. 

But we'll trust in the orphan's Friend above, 
And we'll trust in His promise sure ; 

Though death may quench a mother's love. 
His love will aye endure. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 71 

THE LAST SPEECH, 
DYING WORDS, AND DEATH OF BACCHUS. 

" Even gods must yield !" — Byron. 

f TwAS on a lovely autumn night, 
Whan Luna shed her silver light 
Profusely ower the yellow grain, 
On Buchan's braid an' fertile plain : 
The air was still — a holy calm 
Sat broodin' on a throne o' balm ; 
The reaper's sang on dale an' hill 
Had died awa', an' a' was still : 
E'en nature's spirit, nestled deep 
Amang the moon-beams, seem'd asleep. 

Wi' mind congenial to the scene, 
I bade my kittle cares guid e'en, 
An' musefully wi' lyre in han', 
Like pilgrim to the Holy Lan ? , 
I wander'd frae the warld's roar, 
Alang the TJgie's lanely shore. 
A thousan' saft emotions stole 
Athwart my gladly-glowing soul, 
A thousan' tender thochts cam' ower ine^ 
An' far awa' frae Ugie bore me ; 



72 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

While Fancy on her throne serene 
Began to " picture things unseen," 
An' Mem'ry pondrin' on the past, 
Her treasured stores aroun' me cast. 

At length, in moralizin' mood, 
Like ony sage divine I stood, 
An' saw, atween me an' the licht, 
A sturdy, stalwart, staggerin' wicht, 
Wi' mony a zig-zag back an' fore, 
Come tuinlin' doun to Ugie's shore. 

His face was like the risin' moon, 
Whan hazy vapours hover roun', 
Or like the sun whan fiery-fac'd 
He's sinkin' in the windy west, 
Or risin' ower a stormy sea, 
Whan rainbows first attract his e'e : 
An' in his han' a cudgel crookit ; 
Upon its like I never leukit. 
A simile I canna catch it 
On a' Parnassus' hill to match it ; 
But, by my sang, it was a rung 
Declar'd its master had a tongue ; 
Gin stick philosophers speak true, 
Its marrow coward never drew. 
As doun the brae he stoiterin' cam', 

He loud began to curse and d , 

An' soon I kent by mony a badge, 
'Twas Bacchus, fu' an' in a rage. 

My heart owercome wi' sudden fricht, 
I turn'd to run wi' a' my micht ; 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 73 

But wonder fast on wonder grew, 
A lovely maiden met my view, 
An' wi' a witchfu', winnin' smile, 
She beckon'd me to stop a while. 
An' whare's the Scotsman ever fled, 
"Whan danger threaten'd lovely maid ? 
Or whare's the poet wadna die 
Beneath the licht o' Beauty's e'e ? 
Sae, bravin' fear, I stood amaz'd, 
An' on the peerless damsel gaz'd. 
Her robes were like the purest snaw ? 
An' doun in gracefu' faulds did fa', 
An' flowers o' mony a varied hue 
Adorn'd the ringlets roun' her brow ; 
"While roun' her neck, on ribban' strung-, 
A medal on her bosom hung% 
Of purest gowd ; and, by the same, 
I saw that Tehpekance was her name. 

But wha may paint the matchless grace 
That play'd serenely ower her face ? 
Or wha may sing the virtues rare 
That nestl'd in her bosom fair ? 
Sae mild an' seraph-like she seem'd. 
I half imagin'd that I dream'd, 
Till wi' an aith the fearfu' rung 
At either her or me was flung ; 
But luckily we 'scapit scaith, 
It whirl'd by an' miss'd us baith, 
While Bacchus backward wi' a tumble 
Grae ITgie's stream an unco jumble, 



74 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

But sair for life an' Ian' he faucht, 
Till o' the bank he gat a claucht, 
An' clamert out fu' douce an' dreepin'. 
Quoth I, " My frien' ye've got a steepin' — 
A Rechabite for ance ye're crown'd— 
'Tis pity that ye wasna drown'd." 
Wi' that, his godship's fearfu' rung, 
On TJgie's stream wi' wrath I flung, 
An' stoutly stood resolv'd to daur 
The rungless hero's windy war. 

But words are weak an' worthless noo, 
To paint the wrath upon his brow : — 
His rollin' e'en so wildly flashin', 
His tusky teeth convulsive gnashin', 
While hissing frae his burnin' soul 
The bleezin' aiths in volleys foul 
Cam' tum'lin' on the startl'd ear — 
Ower foul an' fierce to mention here : 
But there he stood, an' swore pell-mell — 
A terrible embodied hell ! 

Asham'd to leuk on sic a wicht, 
The moon withdrew her lovely licht ; 
An' startl'd Nature, erst sae still, 
Began to moan on dale an' hill ; 
The lichtnin' flash'd frae cloud to cloud ; 
" The thunder bellow'd lang an' loud ;" 
The wildert wind wi' mony a shift, 
Gaed whirlin' roun' the low'rin' lift ; 
Frae east to wast by turns it blew — 
Frae north to south anon it flew ; 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 75 

While, huge an' dark, ilk reelin' cloud , 
Seem'd pregnant wi' anitlier flood, 
As thus the drucken debauchee 
Address'd the dauntless maid an' me : 

" Ye lily-fac'd tee-total ! 

Ye pride-puff 'd, water-drinkin' witch ! 

Confound you an' your wat'ry crew, 

Ye'ye fleec'd me waur than Water-loo. 

Tho' tens o' tkousan's there did fa', 

I scarcely miss'd them in my ha' ; 

But noo, wi' your tee-total tricks, 

It's shun'd as gin it were Auld Nick's : — 

An' you — ye feckless poetaster ! 

Your watery muse — may whirlwinds blast 'er ! 

'Twas only at the last soiree, 

Ye puff'd an' prais'd at ' Congou-bree,' 

An' eyen rashly daur'd to scorn 

My brither, ' bauld John Barleycorn ;' 

An' sung your sang ower Buchan wide, 

To brak' my trade, an' me deride ; 

An' noo, my rung !" — but here he chokit 

Wi' burnin' rage ; but soon he yokit 

Wi' triple vengeance on his brow, 

Till aiths like hailstanes roun' us flew : 

Tee-totalers — he swore it smack — 

Were hypocrites an' scoundrels black ; 

An' vow'd, in either prose or rhyme, 

He'd han' them doun to latest time, 

That generations yet unborn, 

Micht shun their paths wi' endless scorn. 

Quoth Temperance, wi' a pleasant smile, 
" At sic a task ye needna toil, 



76 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

Secure beneath our banner braid, 
We'll a' win there without your aid." 

Conyuls'd wi' rage his teeth he gnash'd, 
An' madly on the maiden rush'd — 
"Whan hissin' through the troubl'd air, 
The lichtnin' flash'd wi' fearfu' glare, 
Full in his fiend-like fiery e'en, 
An' doun he fell upon the green. 
As fa's beneath the butcher's blow 
The lusty ox, reluctant low ; 
As fa's before the hunter's aim, 
The death-devoted, gaspin' game ; 
So groanin', gaspin', doun did fa', 
The haughty lord o' Bacchus ha'. 

There's something in the human heart, 
That bleeds whan fellow-mortals smart ; 
There's something in our feeble clay, 
That weeps an' wails anither's wae ; 
A frien', a neebor, brither dear, 
When plung'd in pain, draw forth a tear ; 
An' e'en a dounricht sworn foe, 
Will lay our hostile feelings low : 
When helpless in the pangs o' death, 
We hear him groan an' gasp for breath ; 
Then something inwardly will gnaw, 
An Pity's tear unfeigned fa'. 

This truth upon my heart was stampit, 
When tortur'd Bacchus madly thumpit 
Wi' ban's and feet the fatal plain, 
An' groan'd an' cried for help in vain. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 77 

Poor devil ! something sad cam ower me, 
To see him dree sic pangs afore me ; 
An' even Tempekance shed a tear, 
To see his awfu' en' draw near. 
Transpierced wi' ilka frantic howl, 
Compassion tonch'd her inmost soul ; 
An' on his lichtnin'-scorched brow, 
The water canld she weepin' threw ; 
An' beck'nin' wi' her snawy hand, 
She whispered accents saft an' bland — 
She whispered accents fraucht wi' balm, 
Her torturd enemy to calm. 

Charity ! thy deeds divine, 
Are far aboon a pen like mine ; 
Thy ilka action here on earth, 
Declares to man thy heavenly birth. 

Pity ! on thy peerless brow 
What healin' virtues mortals view ; 
The hardest heart that beats in man, 
Grows saft aneath thy soothin' han' ; 
The sternest saul that dwalls in clay. 
Maun melt afore thy sunny ray ; 
An' even pain half tynes its sting, 
Whan cover'd wi' thy downy wing. 

These facts by demonstration taught, 
Cam' rushin' on my troubled thought, 
As frae our helpless hero's brow, 
The stormy frowns o' wrath withdrew : 
As calm he turn'd despite the pain 
That rack'd his beatin', burnin' brain— 



78 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

As wi' a sigh lie rais'd his han', 
An' thus his latest speech began : — 

" Tempekance, listen, and forgie 
My reckless threats and wrangs to thee ! 
Here, on the verge o 5 death you see me — 
Ye've seen my rage, my courage, lea' me : 
In half-an-hour yon demon fiend 
That's watchin' for my horrid end, 
"Will seize me in his cloven claw, 
An' hear me to his den awa ! 
Oh ! what a life ! I'm gone for ever ! 
Oh ! horror — pardon 3 never, never ! 
How many millions led astray 
By my example, curse the day 
They first gaed tum'lin' frae my dwallin', 
Whaur noo in quenchless flames they're squallin' ! 
Temperance, warn a' livin' mortals 
For evermair to shun its portals !" 

Owercome, his trem'lin' accents fail'd him, 
For Death already had assail'd him. 
" Oh ! water, water !" twice he moan'd, 
An' syne his breath awa he groan'd. 
But here, alas ! my feeble muse 
Assays in vain to sing the news. 

for a Burns' Herculean power 
To paint his horrid dying hour, 
The warring elements aboon, 
The fiends infernal howlin' roun' ! 

1 thocht, in fact, that Ugie's vale 
Was bleezin' in the midst o' hell, 
As 'neath my feet convulsed Terra 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 79 

Shook to its centre — shook to Zero — 
As spang across tli' affrighted stream, 
Cam' Satan, wi' a fiendish scream, 
An' seiz'd his prey wi' pride profound ; 
While kindred spirits danc'd around, 
As by the ankles twa he swang him, 
An' ower his lusty shouthers flang him. 
But oh ! the dolefu' dread cam' ower me, 
While gazin' on the scene afore me ! 
It gars me shudder yet to think o't, 
An' in my tale I daurna link it ; 
But close to Temperance I clung, 
An' on her beatin' bosom hung : 
As clings the sailor to the shroud, 
When wintry winds are roarin' loud ; 
As clings the limpit to the rock, 
Despite the billow's bounding shock ; 
As clings to life the dying sinner, — 
So clung my ilka nerve upon her, 
Whan on his liyin' bier I saw 
The conquer'd lord o' Bacchus' ha', 
That liyin' bier, the Diel himsel' : 
But here I quit the horrid tale. 
Awa his prize he proudly bore, 
Its legs stuck out like horns afore, 
While ower his rumple large an' lang 
The conquer'd hero's carcase hang ; 
An' thus the skaith o' Caledonia, 
He haul'd to " hell's black Pandemonia,"' 

" Now wha this tale o' truth may read, 
Ilk man an' mither's son tak' heed, 



80 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

Whane'er to drink ye are inclin'd, 
Or Bacchus' Ha? runs in your mind, 
Think ye may buy your joys ower dear, 
Remember Bacchus on his bier" 



ODE TO SPRING, 1843. 

WRITTEN ON THE TWELFTH OF APRIL, DURING A SNOW 
STORM. 

To thee, young Spring, 
To thee I sing 
My melancholy lay ; 
Thy mantle green, 
I erst have seen, 
Where is it hid to-day ? 
Where are thy songsters and thy flowers ? 
And where, Oh ! where thy balmy bowers ? 

White-rob'd in snow, 
Thy flow'rets low 
Are bending to the earth, 
Like infants fair 
Of mother's care 
Bereaved at their birth ; 
Thy yet unnuniber'd notes of joy 
No cheerful bills to-day employ. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 81 

All, all is sad 
That erst so glad 
Upon thy bosom hung , 
All, all is gloom, 
Thy virgin bloom 
By dying Winter stung : 
Meet emblem thou of artless maid. 
On self relying, soon betray'd. 

But thou shalt rise 
And yet rejoice 
In all thy wonted bloom, 
While artless maid, s 
Like thee betray'd, 
May mourn an early doom, 
And never more revive or sing, 
Like flowers or songsters of the Spring. 



A SAILOR'S ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN. 

Hail, Ocean ! to thy swelling breast 
Once more my willing heart is press'd. 
And once again my soul's at rest, 
To feel thee bounding under me. 

Condemned to languish long on shore, 
I stranded lay 'mong classic lore, 
But now I'll never leave thee more, 
Thou place of my nativity 

F 



82 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

Ocean ! on thy bosom spread, 
How happy was my infant bed ; 
Thy midnight murmurs round my head 
Supplied a mother's lullaby. 

And I have hung upon thy breast, 

A ship-boy on the quivering mast, 

And looks of love upon thee cast, 

My bosom glowing thrillingly. 

And thou hast met my feasting view, 
When day his dazzling light withdrew, 
Reflecting from thy bosom blue 
The midnight heaven's serenity. 

And I have lov'd thee with my soul, 
"When Boreas bade thy billows roll, 
When frantic rushing from the pole, 
He madly bounded over thee. 

Nor was my heart against thee seal'd, 
When all thy wrath I saw reveal'd, 
When mountain billows rag'd and reel'd, 
Before the tempest's majesty. 

When flash'd the lightning from the cloud, 
When roar'd the thunder long and loud, 
When every wave appear'd my shroud, 
Still, still I lov'd thee tenderly. 

And I will love thy every wave, 
And dauntless all thy dangers brave, 
Till in thy womb I find a grave, 
And see unveil'd eternity. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 83 



ADDRESS TO MY AULD PIPE. 



" Come, ponder well, for 'tis no jest ; 
To laugh it would be wrong." — Cowper, 



Uxflixcbldt frieii". my guid auld cutty, 
Hail to thy visage black an' sooty ! 
Inspired by frien'ship, love, an' duty, 

Wi 3 tearfu' e'e. 
This hamely, heartfelt, dolefu' ditty 

I sing to thee. 

Thy neck — wi' sorrow be it spoken— 
Thy neck, lang hale, at last is broken : 
Alas ! owe? time's the sad, sad token 

That we maun part, 
An' deep 's the wound the thocht has stricken 

In my puir heart. 

Thou was a cutty deeply dear ; 
I gat thee frae a cronie queer, 
An' for his sake, frae year to year 

I hain'd thee tentie, 
But noo thou'rt streekit on thy bier, 

An' I lament thee. 
f2 



84 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

Sax towmons noo hae onward trampit. 
Sin' first my teeth thy stumpie stampit, 
An' faithless Men's hae aften dampit 

My e'e sin' then ; 
An' noo my hindmost hope is swampit, 

Sin' thou art gane. 

Thy weel-kent, changeless, sooty cheek, 
How kindly on me wad it keek, 
As roun' an' roun' thy whirlin' reek 

Took mony a turn ; 
But noo thou'rt gane ower life's last creek ? 

An' I maun mourn. 

Nae mair thou'lt cheer my dowie heart, 
Whan pierc'd by fell Miss Fortune's dart ; 
Nae mair thou'lt ply thy healin' art, 

"Whan frien's forsake me, 
Nor act a pilot's skilfu' part, 

Whan storms owertake me. 

Nae mair, inspir'd by thee I'll sing, 
Like merry lark in cheerfu' spring ; 
My muse, alas ! maun droop her wing, 

In wintry gloom, 
Or trem'lin' touch some plaintive string, 

An' mourn thy doom. 

Nae mair, whan Summer smiles serene, 
I'll wander blythe at dewy e'en — 
Musin' alang the meadows green, 

'Mang daisies bonnie ; 
But, cheerless by the ingle stane, 

I'll thee bemoan aye* 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 85 

Nae mair, aneath September's moon, 

On Ugie-side I'll lay me doun ; 

My cares a' crush'd, an' thee in tune, 

To croiin my joys — 
But heartless ower thy fate I'll croon. 

An 5 sever'd ties. 

Nae mair in winter, wild an' drear, 

To welcome in the infant year, 

I'll meet 'mang kindred cronies dear. 

By some blythe ingle — • 
In ither scenes, wi' mony a tear, 

I noo maun mingle. 

Thee, Friendship's gift, nae mair in time. 
Thy sooty wa's I'll scrape and prime, 
Or han' thee roun' in Friendship's clime, 

'Mang brithers dear — 
But mourn thy fate in prose an' rhyme, 

Frae year to year. 

Inspir'd by thy delicious reek, 
Swellin 5 within my gratefu' cheek- 
How aft upon the moorlan' bleak. 

Baith ear' an' late, 
I've cheerfu' toil'd frae week to week— - 

A match for Fate ! 

"Whan cares or crosses cam' athwart me, 
Whan thochts despondent hauflins waur'd me. 
Or Fate, the limmer ! danc'd an' daur'd me 

Her neck to thraw — 
Twa whiffs o 5 thee hae aften gart me 

Owerthrow them a'. 



»0 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

Whan plungin' deep in miry stanks, 
Wi' raggit breeks an' plastert shanks, 
Whan tum'lin' doun cam' baith the banks,* 

An' amaist smor'd me ; 
Withouten thee, Miss Fortune's pranks 

Had surely waur'd me. 

Whan hameward ploddin' frae my toil, 
'Neath Winter's war or Summer's smile ; 
Thou shorten'd aye the langsome mile, 

Though often weary !— 
'Twas thine ilk sorrow to beguile, 

An' keep me cheery. 

Content wi' thee, an' Tibby's smile, 
I snapt my thumbs at Fate the while ; 
Smilin' at Peel an' taxes vile, 

I careless sang— 
Weel pleas'd that independent toil 

Was naething wrang. 

But fairest flowers at last maun wither, 
An' dearest frien's maun part frae ither ; 
The stately ship that lang did weather 

The Borean blast, 
Besieg'd by wind an' waves thegither, 

Aft sinks at last. 



* The author was one day working in a drain, five feet deep ; and, owing 
to his deafness, would certainly have been smothered beneath a portion of 
the bank, which gave way, had not a fellow -labourer providentially pulled 
him from beneath the falling mass, just in time to save his life. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 87 

An' thou art gane, my cutty dear ! 
An' I maim shed the sad saut tear : 
Lat thochtless mortals mock an' jeer 

My sorrow deep — 
I heed them not, but ower thy bier 

My loss I'll weep. 

An' this, thy humble monument, 

Some future day " in guid black prent," 

Forth to the warld it sail be sent, 

'Mang great an' sma' ; 
That a' thy virtues may be kent 

Whan I'm awa'. 

Sail monuments, in mock'ry, rise 
To monarchs, monkeys and magpies- 
Sail letter'd marble flatter flies 

That stung the world— 
An' poet's pipe, whane'er it dies, 

Be earth-ward hurl'd ? 

No ! by my ardent bosom throes, 
Thy fame, sweet soother o' my woes, 
Sail live till Nature's eyelids close 

On Terra's time- 
Though moths an' critics creep in rows 

On this my rhyme ! 



88 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



TO A LARK ESCAPED FROM A HAWK* 

" Be not the muse ashamed here to bemoan 
Her brothers of the grove." 

Thomson. 

Wee fluttering panting breathless guestie L 
Thou'rt welcome to my humble feastie ; 
Yon hungry hawk fu' fleet hath chas'd thee 

Ower dale an' hill, 
Far frae thy canty, cosie nestie, 

Thy blind to spill. 

But here at last, wee, welcome stranger, 
Thou'rt free frae a' impendin' danger ; 
For, should the cruel, ruthless ranger 

Here shaw his fangs, 
This han' shall be the sure avenger 

0' a' thy wrangs. 

Oh ! how thy little heartie's jumpin', 
Against thy downy bosom thumpin', 
Like infant feeties nimbly trampin', 

Whan fears annoy ; 
But noo thou'rt safe, nae mair be dampin' 

Thy wonted joy. 



* One day in Spring, while I was seated at dinner, along with two 
friends, the door of my " hallan" being open, the little poetic stranger flew 
in, and, alighting on the table before us, sunk down quite exhausted, but 
soon revived. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES 89 

A captive here iu cage o' mine. 

Thy free-born heartie ne'er sail pine ; 

'Twad grieve me sair to see thee dwine 

An' droop by me, 
Or monrniir ower thy lost " langsyne" — 

It maunna be ! 

Thon'lt see again thy downy brood — 
Thou'lt sing again in sprightly mood, 
Far up aside yon fleecy cloud 

That shades the lea ; 
Sae dinna mourn, for 111 niak' good 

Thy liberty. 

An' next whan Spring, the lovely maid. 
Comes smilin' on wi' gracefu' tread, 
To spread her new poetic plaid 

On moor an' lea, 
I'll ablins list, wi 3 heart richt glad. 

Thy minstrelsy. 

Thy sang — Oh ! could I hear thy sang, 
Whilk noo has been denied me lang, 
'Twad soothe, I ween, the sharpest pang 

I e'er may dree. 
An' raise, my bosom cords amang, 

A matchless glee. 

But truce — what fruit can wishes bring I 
Ilk sunny morn, in sportive Spring, 
"Whan skyward on thy dewy wing 

I see thee rise, 
I'll fancy that I hear thee sing, 

An' sae rejoice, 



90 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

For man, bereav'd o' pleasures real, 

Is prone to cling to the ideal ; 

E'en hirplin' twafauld, auld an frail, 

Ayont fourscore, 
He'll cling to hope, but hope maun fail, 

An' a' pass ower. 

Sae fare-thee-weel, thou warbler sweet, 
We ablins never mair may meet- 
Fly as we will, nae safe retreat 

We'll find frae death, 
An' he, than hungry hawk mair fleet, 

Pursues us baith. 



THE WANDERER. 



Whan Boreas swept the frozen plain, 
An' lash'd the wrathfu' sea : 

One evening as the sun gaed down 
Ower snaw-clad Benachie. 

Fu' glad to see the murky shades 

0' nicht begin to fa', 
I left my toil on weary shanks, 

An' sought my humble ha'. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES 91 

\\T gleesome smiles, the wee-things ran, 

To bid me welcome liame ; 
Air pensive by the ingle cheek, 
I set me down fn' tame. 

I thocht upon the nameless poor — 

The sailors on the sea — 
I blest nrydot, an' e'ed wi' pride, 

My bairnies' sportive glee. 

Whan ben the floor wi' feeble steps, 

An' shiv'rin' wi' the caul', 
An aged man wi 5 lyart locks, 

Upon a staff did crawl. 

" Grnid evenin'," faltert frae his lips, 

" Gnid evenin' to yon a' ; 
I'm weary battlin' wi' the blast. 

An' fain my breath wad draw." 

I plac'd a chair aside the fire. 

An' bade him welcome ben ; 
" Sit down, my frien', this norlan' blast 

Ye mannna face again. 

" The shelter o' my hnmble bield, 

For ae short nicht yon'll share ; 
I yet may wander like yoursel', 

Tho 5 better noo I fare." 

The stranger sigh'd, an' syne his han' 

Athwart his ample brow, 
As if in meditation deep, 

He slowly, sadly drew. 



92 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

Again he sigh'd, an' thus began : — 

" I hope you never will ; 
Yet I, whan in my tearless teens, 

Stood higher on life's hill. 

" An' noo, fu' thankfu' here I rest 

At threescore years an' ten — 
We little ken whan mornin' dawns, 

What way the day may en'. 

" Whan youthfu' passions, fierce and strong, 

Our early actions sway ; 
However bricht our mornin' dawn, 

Dark, dark may be our day. 

" My story — gin ye kent it a', 

Micht be a lesson guid ; 
I've smil'd in pleasure's sunny paths, 

An' sigh'd 'neath sorrow's cloud. 

" My father was a wealthy laird, 

Had ne'er a son but me ; 
An' early frae the paths o' vice, 

He taught me far to flee. 

" My mither's love was like the sea, 

A deep unfathom'd tide ; 
An', while she liv'd, my days an' years 

Awa' did pleasant glide. 

" I lov'd a maid, the fairest far, 

That ever smil'd on man ; 
An' waited but a year to claim 

Her promis'd heart an' han'. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 93 

" Excuse the tear that's in my e'e — 

Those happy days are gane ; 
Yet mem'ry, sadly leivkin back, 

Conjures them up again — 

" I yet can see her smiles divine. 

An' hear her whispers sweet ; 
But why upon them linger here ? 

Nae niair on earth we'll meet. 

" I then was in my twentieth year, 

Esteem'd an' loy'd by a', 
Whan clos'd by death my father's e'en 

Wi' unfeign'd grief I saw. 

" Upon his new-clos'd, narrow grave 

The autumn leaves did fa', 
An' on my mither's by his side, 

White fell the winter snaw,— 

" While I an orphan laird was left, 

A while to grief resign'd ; 
But soon, alas ! their mem'ry dear 

Was banish'd frae my mind. 

" Allur'd by Flattery's deadly smiles, 

An' Guile's deceitfu' ray, 
My unsuspectin' heart was led 

Frae Virtue's paths astray. 

" The titl'd sons o' lordly fame 

I joined in fatal hour, 
An' deep in dissipation plung'd, 

Owercome by Bacchus' power, 



94 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

" My Helen — Virtue's fairest flower— 

I strove to lead astray : 
She justly spurn'd me frae her breast, 

An' soon slept in the clay. 

" On, on I went, yet faster on 

I urged my mad career ; 
The closin' scene o' a' my hopes 

Was Helen on her bier. 

" Reflection's sting I strove to blunt 
WV wine's delusive power : 

I sought relief ayont the sea, 
But found no pleasant hour. 

" In midnight revels 'mang the gay, 
Her image still was there, 

An' ower my brichtest moments threw 
A sable shade o' care. 

" I smiled to hide the startin' tear, 
An' sang to choke the sigh ; 

I drank to drown the saddenin' thochts 
0' happy days gane by. 

" I chased Despair frae clime to clime, 

Ower continent an' sea, 
As if I frae my wretched self 

Had then resolved to flee. 

" I sought the company o' those 
The virtuous strove to shun ; 

But, in a few short years at maist, 
The race o' folly's run. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 95 

"Jn prison I for debt was lodg'd, 

An' soon, alas ! I saw 
A stranger lawfully allow'd 

To claim my father's ha'. 

,; Remorse an' shame assailed me noo. 

In prison whare I lay ; 
I fought wi' horrid dreams by nicht, 

An' dismal thochts by day. 

" Religion— noo my only stay- 
Was then forgot by me ; 

I conldna leuk for mercy then. 
Nor to my Saviour flee, 

" But as the calm succeeds the storm. 

An' winter yields to spring, 
The conflict o' my passions ceas'd, 

An' Reason spread her wing. 

" I backward through departit years 

Reflective cast my e'e : 
My father's maxims truer seem'd, 

An' dearer noo to me, 

" The meni'ry o" my mither dear— 

I durstna linger there : 
I wept — I owned my wretchedness. 

An' tremblin' knelt in prayer. 

" I cast mysel' on love divine, 

All wretched as I was ; 
I pleaded wi' the Sinner's Frieir 

To plead the sinner's cause. 



96 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

" I loath'd the deeds that I had done, 

An' own'd my doom was due ; 
In Mercy's ever-open arms 

Mysel' I weepin' threw. 

" Like moon-beams ower some silent lake, 

Whan tempests cease to blaw, 
Serenely ower my troubled soul 

A holy calm did fa'. 

" I felt again as I had felt 

Whan in my father's ha', 
Ere snares o' vice had led my feet 

Frae virtue's paths awa. 

" The hymns, the prayers my mither dear 

In youth had taught me there, 
Cam' sweetly ower my soul again, 

Like fragrant mornin' air. 

" My thochts, my dreams were changed again 

To what they were of yore, 
Yet aft I sigh'd for liberty, 

An' deemed it still in store. 

" An' aft I thocht on Helen's grave — 

An' aft the tears wad fa', 
To think a stranger noo possess'd 

My dear ancestral ha'. 

" Thus days, an' weeks, an' months flew on. 

Till sax lang years had pass'd, 
Then dying Hope reviv'd again 

On Freedom's breast at last. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 97 

" I left the prison's lanely gloom, 

"While tears fell frae my e'e ; 
The fields — the flowers — the fragrant air, 

Were Paradise to me. 

" Sae potent was the magic spell 

That sway'd my feelings then, 
I quite forgot that I had nought 

On earth to ca' my ain. 

" A simmer day I wander'd on, 

I kentna whare nor why, 
Till ance I saw the western clouds 

Assume a ruddy dye. 

" Like ane that frae a pleasant dream 

Awakes to find it fause— 
I. startin', stood an' sadly mus'd, 

An' wondered whare I was. 

" The truth, alas ! the bitter truth, 

Disturb'd my spirit's rest ; 
I felt my sadly-sinkin' heart 

Grow heavy in my breast. 

" The peasant's hours o' toil were ower, 

He sought his lanely ha' ; 
Whare lealest love a welcome gae 

To wile his cares awa. 

" Ilk little birdie sought again 

Its fav'rite bush or tree ; 
But a' the warld, though wide it was, 

6 Was nameless like to me.' 



98 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

" I winna linger on the thochts 
That crossed my "bosom then— 

I wept the weary hours awa, 
Till mornin 5 dawn'd again. 

" Oh ! what is man, wi' a' his pride, 
"Whan frien'less left to sigh ? 

"Whan nae kent face, wi' Welcome's smile, 
Illumes his bosom's sky ? 

" "Whan, 'mid the busy, bustlin' thrang, 

He feels himsel' alane ; 
'Tis solitude mair dreary far 

Than Nature's wildest scene. 

" A frien'less outcast, this I felt, 
As thousands passed me by — 

The hermit in his lanely cave 
"Was ne'er sae lane as I. 

" For days an' weeks I wander'd on, 

But nae kent face could see ; 
The crowded street, the mountain glen, 

Were baith alike to me. 

" As slowly sinkin' doun the hill, 
The mist o'erspreads the glen ; 

I felt despondency owerspread 
My lanely breast again. 

" Thocht follow'd thocht — a gloomy train — 

I wadna name them noo ; 
But nor'ward to my native vale, 

I half reluctant drew. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 99 

" I reached it not — 'twas Fate's decree — 

For, as I onward pass'd, 
"Whan least I thocht a frien' to see. 

I met a frien' at last. 

i; My father's groom, wi' whom in youth 

Familiar I had been ; 
Oh ! how I grasp'd his willin' han', 

An' stood wi' streamin' e'en ! 

" The meniTY o' that meetin' dear, 
Like dew on snn-scorch'd flowers, 

Has aft reviv'd my droopin' heart, 
In sorrow's saddest hours. 

" His ilka word was tenderness, 

His ilka leuk was love ; 
He brooded ower my wretchedness, 

Like tender turtle-dove. 

" He took me to his humble hame, 

An' freely fed me there ; 
He studied ilka word he spake, 

To soothe the wand'rer's care. 

" I couldna speak my gratitude, 

Nor can I speak it yet ; 
But, while I breathe, I'll bless the hour— 

The happy hour we met. 

" It taught me that a man's a man, 

Whate'er may be his fa' : 
It taught me that in life's low vale, 

Fair virtue's flowers may blaw. 
a 2 



100 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

" It taught me that the plackless hind 
May shame the proudest peer ; 

An' taught me how my future course 
O'er life's rough sea to steer. 

" Recruited in my health an' strength, 
The next succeedin' spring ; 

Though thirty winters I had seen, 
I went to serve the king. 

" What could I do ? — wi' empty purse, 

Nae ither choice had I ; 
Though weel I judged a sodger's path 

Through mony a mire did lie. 

" I've trod it noo, frae en' to en', 
For thirty years an' mair ; 

But time wad fail to tell you a' 
I've seen an' suffer'd there. 

" I've seen the bravest o' the brave 
Sink mute amang the dead ; 

An' seen my country's standard wave 
Ower rivers rowin' red. 

" I've heard the shout o' victory, 
An' heard the groan o' death ; 

I've seen my comrades by my side 
Fa' lifeless on the heath. 

" I've seen the weepin' widow kneel, 
'Mang gory heaps o' slain, 

To bathe the dyin' sodger's brow, 
On mony a fatal plain. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 101 

w All ! little ken some crowned heads, 

An' little wad they trow, 
What sick'nin' scenes hae met the brave., 

On fields like Waterloo. 

" 'Tis glory a' ! — frae danger free, 

Whan victory's plaudits rise — 
They canna feel the sodger's woun's, 

Nor hear the widow's cries. 

" Resigned to Fate, I foucht for bread. 

But age stole on apace : 
I bade the ' tented field' adieu, 

To seek some restin' place, 

" But whare shall weary Poortith rest, 

Besieg'd by want and care ? 
The grave alane — the welcome grave,— 

My earthly rest is there. 

" Frae door to door, for towmons ten, 

Through heathy Caledon, 
Contentit wi' my lowly lot, 

I noo hae wander'd on. 

u I've met wi' Men's — I've met wi' faes. 

An' though I've aft been bare, 
Religion lang has been my stay, 

An' conquer'd ilka care. 

" I've knelt upon my Helen's grave, 

I've trod my native sward — 
Fve wept within my childhood's hame, 

An' own'd my just reward. 



102 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

"I've spent a thousand pounds a year ; 

I've begg'd the stranger's bread, 
An' prov'd that virtue's paths alane 

To peace an' pleasure lead. 

" Thus far to you my tale IVe tauld, 

An' noo a few short miles, 
Alang the weary road o' life, 

Will en' the wanderer's toils. 

" An' oh ! my son," — the auld man said, 
An' rais'd a leuk o' love — 

u Whate'er may be thy lot below, 
Seek aye a Frien' above," 



A REAL VISION. 



"Has God disown'd them, the children of toil? 

Is the promise of Heaven no more ? 
Shall industry weep ? — shall the pamper'd suppress 

The sweat-earn'd bread of the poor ?" 

Thom. 



'Twas in that season of the year, 
Whan winter wild awa' did steer, 
An' little warblers ower the brier, 

A countless thrang, 
Auld Scotia's heart ance mair did cheer 

Wi' mony a sang. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 103 

The sun, far to the westward gone, 
Had clos'd the day to Caledon, 
An' ower Atlantic regions shone, 

Wi' glorious ray, 
Cheerin' the weary sailor on 

His '• watery way." 

Sair wearied wi' the lang day's toil, 
I hail'd the gloamin' wi' a smile, 
An' haineward ower the weary mile 

Did slowly draw, 
Intent my sorrows to beguile 

An hour or twa. 

Ahoon great Neptune's watery bed, 
The modest moon had rais'd her head, 
While mony a virgin ray owerspread 

The brow of night. 
An' ower my lonely pathway shed 

A welcome light. 

Far frae the busy, bustlin' thrang, 
Auld Ugie's banks I erawl'd alang ; 
}iy bosom torn wi' mony a pang, 
"While ponderin 5 ower 

The countless wants an' woes amang 

The labourin' poor. 

I sigh'd, an' mus'd, an' sigh'd again ; 
I saw Industry piling' d in pain ; 
I saw Starvation } s ghastly main 

Roll ruthless on, 
An' nane to help the lowly train 

It burst upon ! 



104 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

I saw the child laid down to die ; 
I heard the trem'lin' father sigh ; 
I heard the weepin' mother cry 

Aloud for bread ; 
I saw Oppression standing by, 

Wi' lofty head. 

My bosom sicken'd ower the scene ; 
(The trem'lin' frame, the visage lean, 
That fancy's e'e had clearly seen, 

On truth firm bas'd ;) 
I rais'd my waefu', downcast e'en, 

An' sadly gaz'd. 

Whan, lo ! amazement an' dismay 
Seiz'd on my trembling mortal clay ; 
There standing in my lonely way, 

Some ells awa' 
A female form in white array 

I clearly saw. 

To speak ae word I didna dare, 
But stood an' e'ed the heavenly fair, 
Amaz'd to see a sight sae rare 

On Ugie-side, — 
For ladies seldom wander there 

Without a guide. 

In ilka look I weel could trace 
That she was nane o' Adam's race ; 
A settl'd, serious, heavenly grace 

Was in her air, 
An' ower her sweet celestial face, 

A shade o' care. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 105 

Wi' downcast e'en a while she stood, 
An' ower some sorrow seem'd to brood ; 
Syne shook her head in mournfu' mood, 

An' gaz'd on me ; 
An' as she gaz'd, she sigh'd aloud, 

Wi' tearfu' e'e. 

Kae langer still my heart wad lie : 

I ran her watery e'en to dry, 

Whan, wi' a deep-drawn, solemn sigh, 

Her lily han' 
She gently rais'd towards the sky, 

An' thus began : — 

" I come from regions far away — 

From regions of eternal day : 

I come," she cried, " I come to say, 

The sons of toil 
Shall tear Oppression's chains away 

From Britain's isle. 

" When far above in yonder sky, 
I earthward cast my watchful eye, 
And saw thee wander pensively 

Along the vale ; 
I knew thy thoughts — I heard thee sigh 

For Britain's well. 

" I saw thy ardent fancy scan 

The wants and woes of brother man, 

While down thy cheek the torrent ran, 

A flood of woe ; 
Warm from the fountain-head of man 

I saw it flow, 



106 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

" I saw thy pictured scenes of wo, 
Without the aid of fancy's glow ; 
I saw Oppression's brutal blow 

Still ruthless fall, 
And make Starvation's waves o'erflow 

Britannia's wall. 

" I saw the rulers of the brave, 
That mighty wall dare to enslave, 
And pluck it up stave after stave, 

Without regret, 
And heedless plunge it in the grave 

Their laivs had made. 

" I saw the widow's bosom bleed ; 
I heard the orphan beg for bread ; 
I saw Ambition's godless greed 

Tax every loaf ; 
Then praise the patience of the dead, 

Whom want cut off! 

" I heard the humble sons of toil 
Beg freedom on their native soil ; 
I saw Oppression's haughty smile 

Despise their prayer, 
And drive them from their much-lov'd isle, 

To reap despair. 

" All these, and more, I pitying saw : 
The rich man's word a standing law ; 
The poor man's prayer deem'd light as straw- 

Himself a mole ; — 
His liberty — his life awa', 

To crown the whole. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 107 

" Britannia's glory lying low ; 
Her hardy sons toss'd to and fro 
In foreign climes, beneath the glow 

Of sultry suns, 
While still the bitter tide of wo 

Upon them runs. 

" But hark !" she cried, " the tidings hail ; 
The tyrant's iron heart shall quail : 
'Tis sworn on high and cannot fail 

To come to pass, 
The mighty millions yet shall dwell 

In Freedom's house. 

" For I will lead them on," she said, 
" Though here I seem a helpless maid; 
My arm hath tyrants oft dismay 'd : 

I'll lead them on, 
Till Guilt's inglorious head be laid 

The earth upon. 

" Fes ! I have sworn it where I stand ; 

Proclaim it loudly through the land ; 

For here," she cried, " take thou my hand :— 

I swear to thee, 
That poor, despis'd, yet dauntless band 

Shall soon be free !" 

" I will proclaim't," I trembling said ; 
"But what are ye — a helpless maid, 
That dares to crush Oppression's head 

To atoms sma' ?" 
" My name is Justice," she replied ; 

Syne pass'd awa'. 



108 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

WT giant-strength I clam the hill, 
That tower 'd aboon the lowly vale, 
An' proudly rais'd an' rax'd mysel' 

An nnco height ; 
Syne loud proclaimed the glorious tale, 

Wi 3 a' my might. 

" The mighty millions shall be free, 
And tyrants quail from sea to sea ; 
The mighty millions shall be free," 

I loud did roar; — 
"The mighty millions shall be free 

For evermore !" 

An' here I've sung't in rustic strain, 
That Buchan's sons may hear't again, 
An' spread the news through ilka glen 

In Britain's isle, 
Till tyrants tame — till Slavery's slain, 

An' Freedom smile. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 109 



THE SCOTTISH MUSE. 



WRITTEN AS A SMALL BUT SINCERE MARK OF RESPECT 
FOR MR. WILLIAM THOM, INYERURY J AUTHOR OF 
" THE BLIND BOY'S PRANKS." 



For Caledonia's latest son 

Shall loTe his minstrelsy, 
And bards unborn shall kneel them down 

And worship Benachie. 

Bards grew sae scarce, the Scottish muse, 

"Without a haine ava, 
Was left to wander o'er the lea, 
WT waefu' heart, and tearfu' e'e, 

An' nane wad pity shaw. 

By river, stream, an' fountain pure, 

Ilk soul-bewilderin' scene, 
TThare bards o' yore had wont to stray, 
She aft wad wander, lane an' wae, 

Alang the flowery green. 

An' there she'd muse an' muse again, 

On happy days gane by, 
An' e'e the spot where some sweet bard 
Had fondly kiss'd her on the sward,' 

Wha noo fu' low did lie. 



110 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

An' aye the titlier waefu' tear, 

Amang the gowans wad fa', 
An' aye the tither weary sigh, 
Sae mournfu' tremblin' to the sky, 

"Wad waft her soul awa\ 

Owercome at last, she laid her down 

Upon the banks of Ayr, 
"Whare Burns had wont to wander wi' her, 
The wanton hard she lov'd sae dear, 

An' mourn'd sae lang an' sair. 

The little songsters hush'd their sangs, 

An' tearfu' homage paid ; 
The rising moon wept in the east, 
As on a daisy's downy breast 

Her heavy head she laid. 

" Dry up yer tears, ye tunefu' thrang, 

An' weep nae mair for me ; 
Ae balmy sleep to soothe my care, • 
Syne fare-ye-weel ' auld hermit Ayr !' 

I'm boun' to cross the sea 

" Nae mair I'll weep, nae mair I'll sigh — 

There's nane to pity me, 
Adieu, adieu ! ye warblers a', 
The strings o' love are snapt in twa, 

That tied my heart to thee. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. Ill 

" An' what avails the waefu' sigh ? 

The soul-distilled tear ? 
Or what avails the lichtless e'e, 
That looks an' looks, but canna see 

Or frien' or comfort near ? 

" Sae deeply deep the weary wae 

0' ane bedoom'd to see 
Ilk bosom cauld amang the clay, 
That brichten'd up life's cloudy day, 

As Luna gilds the sea. 

" Sae cauldly cauld the blast that blaws, 

On ane without a hame ; 
Nae frien'ly han' to ward awa' 
The nameless ills that thickly fa', 

To crush the droopin' stem." 

King Morpheus kiss'd her bonny brow. 

An' kindly clos'd her e'e, 
An' Oh ! her dreams were sweet I ween, 
For she sleepit soun' till the weary meen 

Had sunk ower Ochiltree. 

Syne up she sprang, an' pu'd a rose 

Frae aff its throny tree, 
Wi' the leaves o' whilk I vat she soon 
Did form hersel' a grand balloon, 

To bear her ower the sea. 



112 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

Auld Nature kindly formed the car — 

A clover leaf sae green ; 
A spider's web did cords supply, 
An' a slichted lover's latest sigh 

Was a' the gas I ween. 

" Fareweel ye bonny banks o' Ayr — ■ 

A lang fareweel to thee !" 
Syne sobbin' sair she sail'd awa', 
To seek a Ian' she never saw — 
A hanie ayont the sea. 

! there were mourners in her train, 

A heavy-heartit thrang ; 
An' never yet sic dolefu' strains 
"Were heard on Caledonia's plains. 

As their sad partin' sang. 

The partin' pang, the partin' hour, 

That weary word, adieu, — 
The bleezin' battle's deadly stour, 
Is nae sae sair's the partin' hour, 
Nor half sae sair, I trow. 

The little goddess swiftly scuds 

Alang the balmy sky ; 
The banks o' Ayr are far behind : 
She rides upon the faithless wind — 

But Benachie draws nigh. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 113 

An' there was mist on Benachie. 

An' mony a mournfu' sigh ; 
An' the waefir wanderer lichted down, 
To see what made the dolefu' soun' 

That murmur'd through the sky. 

An' Benachie was weepin' sair. 

Within his misty hower : 
Ye micht hae heard ilk waefu' scream 
Ower Garioch wide, while Cry's stream 

Wi's reekin' tears ran ower. 

Laugh on ! — but Caledonia's hills 

Hae aft en wept afore, 
To see Oppression's iron han' 
Drive myriads frae their native Ian', 

To seek an unkent shore. 

O Scotia ! thy rocky hills 

Hae feelings saft an' pure ; 
But Benachie excels them a' : 
He wadna lat thy muse awa, 

The warld wide to scour. 

'Twas just whare Ury's reekin 5 flood 

Ran wildly on to Don, 
A modest, unkent, nameless bard 
Sat musin' on the gow'nie sward, 

An' heard the mountain's moa-n. 



114 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

"WT anxious steps, an' anxious looks 7 

Aslant the flowery lea, 
Straight to the mourner's foot he hied ? 
An' there he stood an' sadly cried, 

" What ails thee Benachie ?" 

Anither sob, — anither moan, 

Made ilka heart-string sair : 
He speel'd the mourner's sobbin' side, 
"WT tremblin' steps, and soon espied 
The waefu' wanderer there. 

I trow she glowr'd, an' glowr'd again, 

Syne swore by Benachie :— 
" Grin ye '11 be true, an' think nae shame 
To lat that bosom be my hame, 
I'll never cross the sea." 

He press'd her to his lowin' heart, 

The tear fell frae his e'e ; 
" That beatin' bosom's a' thy ain, — 
We'll dwall on yonder flowery plain, — 

Ye'se never cross the sea." 

She kiss'd him ower an' ower again ; 

(Crude pity chiels like me !) 
The witchfu' elf, she's Willie's bride, 
An' sweetly sings on Ury-side, 

Near blythesome Benachie. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 115 



THE EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL. 

Britannia ! Oh, Britannia ! 

My own beloved land ; 
Adieu, adieu, Britannia ! 

I seek a foreign strand. 
Where now the dreams I fondly dream'd, 

When life's gay morning dawn'd ? 
Alas ! they but a moment gleam'd, 

Like friendship's fickle hand. 

Britannia ! Oh, Britannia ! 

My Mary sleeps in thee : 
She sleeps in brave Britannia, 

But dreams no more of me ; 
For want besieg'd our little store, 

Nor bread nor work had we : 
My Mary sunk — she'll need no more — 

She'll never cross the sea. 

Britannia ! Oh, Britannia ! 

I'm on the faithless wave ; 
My poor misrul'd Britannia 

Can never be my grave. 
How long shall folly and excess 

My native land enslave ? 
How long shall cruel laws disgrace 

The rulers of the brave ? 
h2 



116 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

Britannia ! Oh, Britannia ! 

What pangs my bosom tear ; 
My own belov'd Britannia, 

The parting hour is here ; 
Thy hills are sinking from my view ; 

Alas ! they disappear. 
A long — a passionate adieu 

To all that's deeply dear ! 

Britannia ! Oh, Britannia ! 

Thy hills, thy valleys fair- 
No more, my own Britannia, 

My feet shall wander there ; 
Yet day and night around the brink 

Of Mary's lonely lair, 
Till life's sad sun in sorrow sink, 

My soul shall linger there. 

Britannia ! Oh, Britannia ! 

The everlasting sea, 
That laves thy shores, Britannia, 

Shall o'er thy mountains flee ; 
Thy lowly daisy proudly rise 

Above thy tallest tree, 
Before the spot where Mary lie^ 

Shall be forgot by me. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 117 



A WISH. 

for a sweet, secluded spot 

On some lone, lovely isle, 
Where all my cares might be forgot, 

And peace for ever smile. 

One kindred heart, I'd ask no more, 

My life, my love to share ; 
And that one heart within its core 

To nourish love and prayer. 

There would we bloom, like sweet twin-flowers, 

Beneath pure pleasure's ray ; 
And there at last, 'mid autumn showers, 

Like flow 'rets fade away : 

Our withered leaves, low in the tomb, 

Together mingling lie ; 
The fragrance of our summer bloom 

Ee wafted to the sky. 



118 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES, 

LOVE. 

Theee is an hour of boundless bliss, 
When young and ardent lovers meet : 

When feasting on the first pure kiss, 
'Tis life's delicious sweetest sweet. 

When clasp'd in Beauty's fondest fold, 
Ere aught of guile our bosoms stain, 

That moment, fraught with pleasure's gold,. 
Can gild a life of future pain. 

There is an hour — an anguish'd hour, 
When young and tender lovers part, 

And I have felt its piercing power 
Sink to the centre of my heart. 

Yes, I have dropt a trembling hand, 

And felt my bursting heart-strings glow. 

When all the wealth of sea and land 

Could not have bought my soul from wo. 

Love is a wild, bewildering dream, 
Presenting scenes of joy and wo ; 

Now borne on angel-wings we seem, 
Now sinking to the shades below. 

Tet love shall reign — for ever reign. 

Above the blue and blissful sky : 
Its pleasures pure, without its pain. 

Can never, never, never die* 



SONNETS. 



TO UGIE WATER, 



Roll on — roll on, thou meni'ry-stirring stream ! 

Thy daisied banks are deeply dear to me : 
I gaze upon them, and again I seem 

A schoolboy, bathing gloriously in thee 1 
Shrift as the wind, again my unshod feet 

Pursue by thee the gaudy butterfly ; 
Or on thy banks, with wild flowers scented sweet, 

At sunny noon, imparadis'd I lie. 
But, turning round, the dear delusion's o'er — 

My offspring, frolicsome, around me play ; 
In childhood's glee, they throng thy pebbled shore, 

Such as I was, when in my early May. 
Roll on, my Ugie ! though I'm young no more, 

Yet will I love thee till my dying day. 



120 SONNETS, 



TO 



A BEAUTIFUL MOTHERLESS INFANT. 

Come to my arms again, thou beauteous child ! 

And let me kiss thy sweet lips, o'er and o'er : 
That seraph face, angelically mild, 

Reminds me of thy mother — now no more. 
When round her bier in childish sport thou flew- 

An angel hov'ring round the silent dead — 
I mark'd thine eyes, so " beautifully blue ;" 

No grief-drops there the streams of sorrow fed : 
Athwart thy dimpled cheek the witching smile 

Play'd, like a moonbeam on the infant wave ; 
Unconscious of thy loss, thou laugh'd the while 

We laid thy mother in the gloomy grave. 
So, may thy lifetime griefless pass away, 
And may thou never mourn her dying day. 



TO MARY, 



ON HER WEDDING-DAY. 



Mary, I've seen thee, in life's humble vale, 
Adorn the beauties of the virgin Spring ; 

I've seen the lily blush — the rose turn pale — 
The moon eclips'd — the sky-lark cease to sing !- 



SONNETS. 121 

Nay, I have seen the sun with envy weep, 

And own thine eyes outshone his brightest beam — 
And all the beauty of the moon-kissed deep 

Evanish in thy presence, like a dream : 
All these I've seen, and, ravish'd with the sight, 

I've sigh'd my senses and my soul away ; 
Yet these, all these, were but the shades of night 

Compar'd with joyous June's meridian ray : 
Yes, all was dark my fancy then deemed light, 

Now I have seen thee on thy wedding-day ! 



WRITTEN AFTER 

VISITING Mr. T. D. CRUDEN, 

10th February, 1843. 

Why am I sad ? and why does sorrow's tear 

Steal on my cheek, and mar my wonted joy? 
why do all things vanity appear, 

And dreams of death my brooding thoughts em- 
ploy ? 
To-night I saw a man — nay, more — a bard, 

Whose winter-wither'd cheek, deflower'd and 
wan, 
Told of the tyrant Time's cold disregard 

For all that's mortal — all that's seen of man, 



122 SONNETS. 

Four years agone, the rose upon his cheek 
Was fresh as Flora's dew-besprinkled bloom, 

But now, like lily, all resigned and meek, 
Bending its head beneath the winter's gloom, 

It fades and dies. May I a lesson learn, 

And see my winter coming, cold and stern. 



ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. 

'Twas Summer, and the sultry sun shone bright, 

And flow'rets bloom'd upon the banks of Ayr, 
And music through the groyes, from morn till night, 

Proclaim'd the little songsters free from care ; 
Yet, there was sorrow — deepest sorrow there, — 

The Scottish Muse, in widow weeds array'd, 
Wept tears of blood, and frantic tore her hair, 

And sob'd aloud, " Alas ! he's lowly laid !" 
Like some fond mother o'er her infant dear, — 

Nipt, like a flower, in sinless sunny days — 
So Caledonia hung upon his bier, 

And kiss'd the lips that oft had sung her praise : 
" Sleep on, my son !" she said, and dropt a tear — 

" Sleep on — sleep on, thou'rt deathless in thy 



soNioms. 123 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, WHILE STANDING BESIDE 
FLAXMAX's STATUE OF BURNS, WITHIN HIS MONU- 
MENT ON THE CALTON HILL, EDINBURGH, SATUR- 
DAY, april 26th, 1845. 

Tis hallowed ground, all-sacred to the bard, 

Whose last deep sigh transpierced a nation's 
heart ; 
And here he stands to reap his just reward, 

While wond'ring pilgrims worship Flaxinan's art. 
Can I that living marble now survey, 

Xor feel my bosom swell with throes of love ! 
shall my soul's emotions die away 

Without one sigh their dreamy depths to prove ! 
To wake, sweet bard, the echoes of thy home, 

Let one faint note from trembling lyre of mine 
Be heard within thy consecrated dome, 

And one pure tear fall at thy sacred shrine ; 
For I thy strains with love and pride will prize, 
Till kindred spirits meet beyond the starry skies. 



TO MAY, 1843. 

Welcome, sweet May ! 0, how my bosom swells ! 

To look on thy dear face — to kiss thy cheek, 
And see thy daisy-fringed mantle on the dales. 

After so long a night of winter bleak, 



124 SONNETS. 

Welcome, sweet May ! in all thy wonted charms, 

Again thou comest, crown'd with garlands gay, 
Nursing the tender Spring in thy fond arms, 

And strewing flowers around thee in the way : 
The rosy-cheeked maiden hails thy smile, 

And sickness courts thee with a lover's joy ; 
Old age, bow'd down with many a care and toil, 

Comes forth to welcome thee — blest to employ 
His last, fast-fading strength to reach the stile, 

And there, with grateful heart, thy balmy sweets 
enjoy. 



FOR NEW-YEAR'S-DAY. 

Another year of time has pass'd away, 

And long eternity is drawing near : 
Another year — perhaps another day, 

And man and all his works may disappear ! 
Time's but a courser, and his fleet career 

May end before he reach another round ; 
Or, should he chance to run another year, 

He lays a thousand dead at every bound ! 
Why longer trust to future years in store 'i 

Why hang our hopes upon a spider's thread ? 
Begin the work of life, and sleep no more, 

A flower late planted ne'er may raise its head ; 
Or, chok'd by weeds neglected in the soil, 
May never, never bloom, nor shed a cheerful smile, 



SONNETS. 125 



PITY'S TEAR. 

Tve seen a tear shed for the silent dead — 

A mother weeping o'er her infant's bier : 
I've seen a tear from Sorrow's fountain-head, 

And one forc'd to the light by pangs seyere : 
I've seen a tear of joy drop from the eye, 

And one distilled from the soul of love : 
I've seen repentance weep, and heard the cry, 

The bitter cry, of hunger, heard above. 
All these may meet us wheresoe'er we go, — 

For man is doom'd to weep while wandering here, 
Yet there's a tear (how few have seen it flow !) 

Surpasses all the gems the Indies bear : — - 
A mortal weeping o'er another's wo, 

I saw it once, and shed a nameless tear. 



TO CECILIA, 

INFANT DAUGHTER OF MR. R- 



Sweet little cherub, smiling like the dawn 
"When April bathes in dew the daisied dales, 

Blithe as the lambkin frisking on the lawn, 
When maiden May perfumes the sunny vales 



126 SONNETS. 

May never sigh, impelled by sorrow's sway, 

Convulsive tear that happy heart of thine, 
Nor snare of vice, alluring, lead astray 

Thy little feet, sweet babe, from virtue's shrine ; 
May never clouds obscure the rising sun 

That shines so lovely on thy opening bloom, — 
Bright be his beams, until thy race be run, 

To light the path that leads thee to thy home, 
Where yet a brighter, purer morn thou'lt see, 
Than gilds thy sunny cheek, all lovely though it be. 



TO A FRIEND, 

ABOUT TO EMIGRATE TO AUSTRALIA. 

Farewell, dear youth ! a sorrowful farewell ! 

To spend a social hour, we'll meet no more ; 
The wide sea's billows soon shall mournful swell 

To bear thee far from me, and Scotland's shore. 
But, let the waves — nay, more — the great globe, roll, 

If possible, between my friend and me, 
On wings of lasting love, my willing soul 

Shall anxiously be wafted after thee ; 
And when I wander lone on Ugie-side, 

"Where we, like fondest lovers, oft have met, 
I'll kneel me down beside the silver tide, 

And, in imagination, greet thee yet ; 
And when, far hence, thou offer'st up a prayer, 
mind on Ugie-side, and him who loves thee there. 



SONNETS. 127 



ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. 

Awake, my muse, and warble forth my grief, 

Sadly and slow, in solemn-sounding lines ; 
Ah ! what can soothe, or bring my heart relief, 

Since lifeless on his bier my friend reclines ! 
Be mute, ye songsters sweet ! and you, ye flowers ! 

Spread not your dewy bosoms to the east ; 
'Tis mockery to the heart, when sorrow lowers, 

To sing gay songs, or spread the choicest feast ; 
But wake, thou moaning, melancholy wind, 

And join my wailing numbers o'er his bed ; 
No more, alas ! in this low vale, I'll find 

A friend like him who moulders with the dead ! 
Oh ! may we meet again, to part no more, 
tVlienthe last billow bursts on ocean's burning shore ! 



SUGGESTED ON READING A SONNET ADDRESSED TO A 
POETICAL FRIEND, BY S. W. PARTRIDGE. 

" Poetical and poor !" exclaims the bard, 
" A bitter lot is thine !" — and then he sings 

Of Care, and Want, and Famine, pressing hard, 
And piercing sore his friend, with many stings. 



128 SONNETS. 

" Poetical and poor !" that lot is mine ; 

'Tis hard indeed, but harder might have been 
If poor alone, without the soothing Nine 

To make the waste a fruitful, flowery scene. 
Come to my heart, ye muses ! come away, 

And I will laugh at Want and Famine pale ; 
Thy smiles can soothe my cares and keep me gay, 

"While Hope and peace of mind with Want may 
dwell. 
I seek no bays — can laugh at Grandeur's sneer, — 
Man's mind should be his wealth, while doom'd to 

wander here. 



WRITTEN ON LEAVING DUNDEE, ON BOARD THE " LOCH- 
RYAN" STEAMER, 1ST. OCTOBER, 1844. 

Home ! there is magic in that sound : home ! 

Once more my bounding heart is fix'd on thee ; 
By " queenly Tay" no longer will I roam, 

But seek again that bosom dear to me. 
The autumn leaves fall yellow from the tree, 

And winter's wildest winds will soon be here ; — 
Farewell, ye noble Tay ! adieu Dundee ! 

I leave you both, and happy homeward steer. 
Farewell, ye charming scenes around Kinnoul ! 

Adieu to Perth and all that charm'd me there ; 
Soon will the Borean blasts around you howl, 

And all your present beauties disappear : 
But changeless is the heart of her I love, 
And homeward to her arms I o'er the waters move. 



BTS. 129 



TO WINTER. 

Hail, chieftain of the north ! thou com'st again. 

Stern monarch of the year, I bid thee hail ! 
Thou com'st like warrior fierce, rushing amain 

To strew thy path with desolation pale. 
Yet thou art welcome to the thoughtful soul,— 

Stern as thou art, I give my love to thee : 
Thou art my muse when boisterous billows roll — 

When Boreas rules the restless, roaring sea. 
Thy rage once spent, how dear reyiying Spring ! 

Dearer than if she linger'd all the year ; 
She comes like a lost friend, to whom we cling 

With warmer loye than had he still been near ; — 
The pains of life its pleasures all perfume, 
Then welcome, Winter rude, Spring on thy graye 

will bloom. 



TO HOPE, 

Celestial Hope ! star of my bosom's sky ! 

Unclouded still through eyery changing scene, 
Sweet'ner of life ! again to thee I fly, 

As flies the loyely lark to skies serene, 
i 



130 SONNETS. 

Thou sweetest gift bestow'd on man below, 

Whate'er my lot in this vain world may be, 
May ne'er the light of heaven around me glow 

And see my sinking soul depriv'd of thee. 
Oft has thy light illum'd my gloomy way, 

When darkest shades of sorrow o'er me hung, 
And oft I've turn'd to thee, by night or day, 

When base allurements headlong led me wrong ; 
And once again to thee my spirit bends, — 
may it rest on thee when life's vain vision ends. 



EPISTLES, 



TO MR. A. H. ABERCHIRDER. 

AuLD-farren, canty, rhyinin' Men', 
I gat yer letter late yestreen ; 
An' aye sin 5 syne I've ravin' been 

WV perfect pride : 
Sic pranks till noo were never seen 

On Ugie-side. 

My Tibbie thocht me fairly frantic — 
bad yon seen ilk jump gigantic ! 
Tbe waves npon the wide Atlantic 

"Were ne'er sae wild — 
Mad Merry Andrew's daftest antic, 

In contrast mild, 

I'm but a hair-brain'd clown at best, 
An' little braks my wonted rest ; 
But yon poetic feast ye drest, 

Sic power it had 
To feather my poetic nest, 

I clean gaed mad. 



132 EPISTLES. 

The tempest noo begun to settle? 
I fain wad try Pegasus' mettle ; 
Yet on his back I scarce daur ettle 

To seat mysel', 
Some wanton sp'rit has plac'd a nettle 

Below his tail. 

Drunk Tarn O'Shanter on his mare, 
"WT Robin's witches in his rear, 
"Was safer far — I muckle fear 

I'll jump in vain, 
Apollo ! ho ! assistance here ! 

The beast's my ain. 

Yes, on his back aloft I'm seatit, 
An' noo my hindmost groat I'll bet it, 
" A sonsie sonnet" ye shall get it 

Wi' right good will ; 
My vera best — gin I can hit it — 

Be't guid or ill. 

Tho' but a rustic, raw beginner, 

A careless, fearless, scribblin' sinner, 

My muse, there may be something in her — 

Ye seem to think it — 
Sae here she is, gin I can win her, 

Yer health I'll drink it. 

Sincerity my text shall be, 

Frae this I'll preach, and that you'll see ; 

But gin we hap to disagree, 

I'll doff my bonnet, 

An' beg your pardon on my knee, 

Syne burn my sonnet. 



EPISTLES. 133 

Hail then, " my rliyme-composin' brither ! 
We've been ower lang unkent to ither;" 
By Nature's law, fowls o' a feather, 

We plainly see, 
Are ever fain to flock thegither, 

An' sae will we. 

As wavin' fields o' gowden grain, 
To yon fat farmer, fidgin' fain, 
As gloamin' to the love-sick swain, 

Sae dear to me 
Thy artless, unaffected strain 

Shall ever be. 

Thy " blythesome, buzzin', cantie bee,'' 
May cope wi' Robin's minstrelsy ; 
Nane bnt a poet's heavenly e'e, 

Wi' raptur'd stare 
In Nature's bonnie face, could see 

What's painted there. 

The heedless fortune -huntin' race, 
That stride alang wi' hasty pace, 
Nor steal &e blink at Nature's face,— 

They little ken 
What sterling pleasures they displace 5 

For dear-bought pain. 

They sleep, an' eat, an' sleep again, 
Or, ablins waukrife, lie and grane, 
Conjurin' up imagin'd pain 

Wi' countless stings, 
While ower the moon-illumin'd plain 

The poet sings- 



134 EPISTLES. 

Or at the bricht meridian hour, 
Whan jolly June, wi' magic power, 
Bedecks the vale wi' mony a flower, — 

Frae hut or ha', 
To some lone, leafy, nameless bower, 

He hies awa'. 

Or deep in some ghaist-hauntit glen. 
Whan museless mortals dinna ken, 
He lives his childhood ower again — 

His " auld lang-syne," 
Whare first he pu'd upon the plain, 

" The go wans fine." 

Or ablins doun some burnie side, 
That wimplin' wanders to the tide, 
By broomy braes or meadows wide, 

Begem'd wi' flowers, 
"Wi' musefu' pace you'll see him glide 

At gloamin' hours. 

In dreamy thochts, aboon a' care, 
He'll pause, an' pore, an' ponder there, 
Till dazzled — wi' the glorious glare, 

The warld ne'er saw — 
Breathless on Nature's bosom bare, 

He swoons awa. 

Or doun the dale to memory dear, 
Whare first he saw Love's lealest tear- 
A priceless gem, doun drappin' clear 

Frae Jeanie's e'e — 
Ower holy ground you'll see him veer, 

To yon thorn tree. 



EPISTLES. 135 

'Twas there — ye dreamy thochts be still ! — 
'Twas there, beside the flower-fring'd rill 
That skirts the shelt'rin' sunny hill, 

Ae gloamin' gray, 
She whisper'd saft her ain sweet will : — 

" I'm yours for aye." 

An' as he e'es the spot ance xnair, 
Or fraught wi' joy, or grief, or care, 
His swelling heart — but wha may dare, 

Save he alane, 
To lay those bosom secrets bare ?— 

I'll change the scene. 

Sae here I quit my vain digression, 
An' thank you for " The Assignation,"* 
I'll gie't my warmest commendation 

To a' my Men's, 
An' spread it ower the Buchan nation 

By tens and teens. 

O H r, leeze me on thy lyre ! 

It's pregnant wi' poetic iire : 
Lang may you sing an' never tire 

Until you die, — 
To ape thy strain my hale desire 

Sail ever be. 

* A song which Mr. H. sent to the Author. 



I3ff EPISTLES. 

Sweet be thy dreams on Dev'ronside r 
An' leal and loesome be thy bride : 
Tho' I perchance nae mair may stride 

Across to see yon, 
My lore, while flows my bosom's tide, 

Sail aye be wi' you. 

Aye when that lucky day comes roun' 
That fortune led me to your toun, 
Depend upon't I'll set me down 

'Mang Bacchus' bowers. 
An' swig a pint o' stoutest brown 

To you an' yours. 

Our creeds-political, you see, 
May differ here and there a wee : 
You seem to think auld Scotia free, — - 

I'll no dispute it ; 
But by my text, sincerity, 

I'm bound to doubt it. 

I like your sonsie lines for a' that ; 

A heart sincere they plainly shaw that ; 

An* never will I fling awa that, 

Daft though I be ; 
Sae very few I find can fa' that — 

At least to me. 

My muse may ablins tak' a flight 
Ower Caledon some winter nicht, 
To see gin you or I be richt — 

Meantime excuse her— 
She wadna thole a Poet's slight, 

Whae'er abuse her. 



EPISTLES. 137 

Fareweel ! my breath I noo maun tak' it, 
For whaislin' in a sweatie jacket, 
My nag, like ony city sackit, 

Hangs head an' tail ; 
Yet ae request, I fain wad mak' it 

Afore he fail. 

Aye whan you gang to Mount Parnassus ? 

To woo the nine immortal lasses, 

Pray lat me ken what 'mang you passes ; 

I'll be right fain : 
An' ilka time I mount Pegasus, 

I'se lat you ken. 

I'll noo dismount and say nae mair : 
Hae patience wi' my rhymin' ware, 
You'll find it thin an' fell threadbare, 

But, guid or ill, 
Its yours, an' I'm wi' heart sincere. 

Yours, 

Peter Still. 

Millbank, Aug. 1842. 



138 EPISTLES. 



To A. R. Esq. Peterhead, 



" My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend, 

No mercenary bard his homage pays ; 
With honest pride I scorn each selfish end, 

My dearest meed a friend's esteem and praise." 

Burns. 



Dear Sir, my muse has been your debtor 
For sax lang months an' something better, 
An' mony a time I've tried to set her 

Awa' to pay you, 
But out o' this I cou'dna get her, 

E'en thanks to say you. 

Wi' coaxin' words I tried to win her, 
Wi' lover's wiles I prest it on her, 
An' braidly hintit at the honour, 

An' eke the fame, 
That soon might glorious burst upon her, 

A quenchless flame. 

But a' my wiles were wiles in vain, 
An' a' my words were worthless then ; 
She toss'd her head wi' proud disdain — 

A haughty she — 
Till I was e'en at last right fain 

To drap my plea. 



EPISTLES. 139 

Sae days an' weeks sped on sae fast, 
That months are number'd with the past, 
Since on my pow ye kindly plac'd 

A helmet strong, 
Gart wad-be critics shrink aghast, 

An' tied ilk tongue. 

Exulting in its glorious blaze, 
I giant-like strode ower the leys, 
An' bravely challenged a' my faes 

To combat keen, 
But never yet hae sung your praise, 

My worthy frien'. 

^Vhile pond'rin' ower my sins yestreen. 
This black ingratitude was seen, 
An' stared me hard wi" horrid e'en, 

Till up I sprang, 
An' sware an aith — an awfu' ane — 

My muse I'd hang. 

No ! up I sprang an' stoutly swore 
An aith unsworn in time before ; 
Tho' I should dine on frogs galore, 

A Frenchman's platefu 5 , 
Anither day should ne'er pass ower 

My head, ungratefu'. 

So here astride upon Pegasus, 
I canter on towards Parnassus 
Imploriir warm the tunefu' lasses 

To string my lyre, 
An' pour upon my head in masses 

Poetic fire. 



140 EPISTLES. 

Poetic fire ! behold the reek o't : 

My hardship glorious by the cheek o't, 

Parnassus noo I needna speak o't, 

It's a' my ain ; 
I thank you frae the flowery peak o't, 

In heartfelt strain. 

Yes ! frae my bosom's benmost core, 
Warm-gushin' through my rhymin' lore, 
A thousand thanks, a thousand more 

I humbly render ; 
Nae gowd hae I laid up in store, 

A fee to tender. 

Yet poor and plackless tho' I be, 

This self same warld has charms for me, 

Dame Nature's sweets attract my e'e, 

Whan lone I wander, 
At morn or eye, by moor or lea, 

A while to ponder. 

What heart sae cauld but feels a glow, 
Whan Spring comes smilin' o'er the knowe, 
An' sweetly blushin' down the howe, 

The flow'rets fair, 
A' gemm'd wi' morn or e'enin' dew, 

Embalm the air. 

The meanest serf that treads on clay, 
Gall'd by Oppression's iron sway, 
Has riches then on ilka brae, 

An' bank, an' bower — 
An' yielding to the magic sway, 

Forgets he's poor. 



EPISTLES. 141 

While musin' by the Ugie 1 s shore, 
On summer's eve when toil is o'er, 
The wild flowers bloomin' mony a score, 

Alang the plain, 
Xae thoughts o' poverty came o'er 

My bosom then. 

Or whan the rustlin' yellow grain 
Adorns the farmer's fertile plain, 
An' Luna blushin' o'er the main 

Enchantinglie, 
My plackless purse ne'er gies me pain. 

Tho' toom it be. 

Does Caledonia own the man. 
A serf, a slave, in a' the Ian', 
Whase he art -blood ne'er enraptur'd ran 

Through ilka vein, 
Whan Luna wav'd her magic wan' 

O'er gowden grain ? 

Say. is there ane on Scotia's plain 

"Wha never worsliip'd Luna then ? 

The dread commandment — a' the ten- 
Could ne'er restrain me ; 

Nor gowd upon me shower'd like rain — - 
ITnless't had slain me. 

The glowing soul, sublimely swelling, 
Forgets a while its lowly dwelling, 
An' bursts awa' through ether sailing 

Whare angels roam ; 
Till Nature' law again prevailing, 

Recalls it home. 



142 EPISTLES. 

" The soft idea springs sublime, 

The swelling soul o'erflows wi' rhyme ; 

Each quick'ning pulse beats triple time 

To boundless joy ; 
One passing thought 'twere then a crime 

On gowd to employ." 

The bleakest months in a' the year — 
Romantic winter's mad career — 
The snawy hills, tho' cauld an' drear, 

Hae charms for me ; 
I see Omnipotence appear 

On land an' sea. 

What eye but sees in Nature's plan 

The universe-enclasping han', 

That sways ten thousand worlds as one, 

An' bids them roll ; 
Auld Terra here, a grain o' san', 

Amang the whole. 

The briny mountains swelling high — 
The stormy, cloud-o'erburden'd sky — 
The leafless trees that prostrate lie 

Amang the snaw ; 
Or frantic Ugie thundering by — 

I like them a'. 

Yet, frae my heart, I aft bemoan 
The hapless Tar, on ocean lone, 
Whare billows roll convulsive on 

Before the gale, 
Far frae his hame an' Caledon 

Whare kindred dwell. 



EPISTLES. 143 

Again, when Boreas bangs his hail 
On Pgie's icy coat o' mail, 
Wi' bleedin' heart I aft bewail 

The wee bit birdie, 
On some bare branch wi' droopin' tail, 

An' sMv'rin 5 heartie. 

Sae canld an' death-like there it cowers, 
While donn an' doun the hailstane pours ; 
Nae leafy lythe, nae spreadur flowers, 

Nae Meld ay a : 
At last the hungry hawk doun scours, 

An 5 nips't awa, 

Poor thing ! its death let me bemoan ; 

It wadna quit cauld Caledon. 

Whan winter's angry blasts cam' on— 

True to the last — 
Its native tree it cowrd upon, 

Despite the blast. 

So clings the swain to Scotia's shore,— 
Tho' poortith's tempests roun' him roar, 
In hopes at last they'll a' blaw ower, 

Tho' cauld an' snell.— 
Till some huge hawk first seize his store, 

An' syne himseP. 

Yet dark December broodin' ower 
The snawy plain, the surgy shore, 
Brings joys to me a countless store, 

When gloamin' gray, 
Somewhere about the hour o' four, 

Seals up the day. 



144 EPISTLES. 

Wi' joy unfeign'd, ye needna doubt, 
Frae some wet ditch I clam'er out, 
An' buckle on my auld surtout 

"Wi' freedom's pride ; 
Syne through the snaw I tak' the route, 

To Ugie-side. 

An' there my wee bit cantie ha', 
Peeps out frae 'mid a wreath o' snaw, 
Whilk hauds the frosty win' awa ; 

For there it lies, 
Till safter gales in pity blaw, 

Frae warmer skies. 

My half-seen hame ance mair in yiew, 
My happy heart loups licht, I trow, 
To see the " wee-things stacher through" 

The lairy snaw ; 
Ilk smilin' face says, " Here's him noo," 

An', " Come awa." 

The youngest ane — a wee bit lammie — 
Rins ben the house to tell its mammie ; 
An' dancin', says that first it saw me— 

Syne to the door 
Again it rins, " Tit-ta" to ca' me, 

Wi' a' its power. 

Wee innocent ! its blythesome smile, 
Nor mask'd wi' art, nor stain'd wi' guile, 
Repays my ilka care an' toil, 

To keep it cozie ; 
I'm truly blest whan prest a while 

To its leal bosie. 



EPISTLES. 145 

Afore I sine my hindmost sang. 
An' lay my weary banes amang 
The lang-forgotten, mould'rin' thrang. 

In yon kirkyard ; 
I hope to see't, maist sax feet lang. 

My toils reward. 

But. as I said, whan gloaniin' gray 
Seals up the murky winter day. 
I " hame ward plod my weary way" 

Through wreaths o' snaw ; 
Syne to my lyre without delay. 

I glee some fa". 

My Tibbie, blythesome. at my hip. 

Gars spinnin'-jenny nimbly trip. 

Or. some auld seam that's tint the grip. 

She seams anew ; 
While on Parnassus' tap I sip 

Poetic dew. 

Or ower some weel-tauld. witchfir tale. 
'Bout some angelic Arabelle ; 
An hour or twa we baith regale, 

(Minds maun be fed) — 
Syne ask a blessim on our kail. 

An r gang to bed. 

The wee-things, beddit lang afore. 
In ithers oxters soun'ly snore : 
There's nocht ado but bar the door 

An' rest the fire — 
Till mornin' then, lat Boreas roar. 

Until he the. 

K 



146 EPISTLES. 

While blest wi' health, an' meal, an' kail, 
My humble lot I'll ne'er bewail ; 
To ilka breeze I'll spread my sail 

An' steer awa, 
Nor coward-like flee frae ilka gale 

That haps to blaw. 

Whan thochts despondent tempt an' teeze, 
A frien' like you gies life a heeze ; 
For Fame is dear, where'er she flees, 

To Priest or Poet ; 
Her han' gets mony a hearty squeeze, 

Grin folks wad show it, 

For me, I hug'd her ower an' ower, 
An' flang my bonnet to the door, 
An' bless'd the Herald* half a score 

0' times, an' mair ; 
But little kent frae Buchan's shore 

Ye sent her there. 

I laup an' canter'd like a filly ; 

I thocht mysel' the bard o' Killie, 

(But that rash thocht was something silly,) 

An' honest Adam,f — 
An aefauld, independent billy, 

I danc'd an' ca'd him. 



* " The Aberdeen Herald" newspaper, 
t Mr. Adam, Editor of the Herald. 



EPISTLES. 147 

An' j certes, there I wasna wrang ; 
His vera name adorns my sang ; 
Tve aften kent liini bauldly bang — 

Xae matter wha : 
May a' his enemies ride the stang, 

Frae earth awa I 

For you, my frien', my wish is warm, 
Lang may ye wield a wichtfu' arm. 
An' find a bield frae ilka storm — 

For storms will rage — 
Till honours roun' about you swarm 

In ripe auld age ! 

Ohone ! Fareweel ! — I've tint my lyre, 
My feckless nag begins to tire ; 
Lang, lang, may Fortune fan your fire. 
On life's high hill- 

Meantime I trudge alang the mire, 
Your servant, 

STILL. 
MlLLBANK, Oct. 1842. 



k2 



148 EPISTLES. 



TO Mr. WILLIAM CRUICKSHANK, 

B0OBRAE, CRUDEN. 

Dear Willie, while the wintry blast 
Comes howlin' frae the wild nor'wast, 

The snawy plain alang, 
I seat mysel' at Tibbie's hip, 
My rhymin' quill ance mair to dip, 

An' sing anither sang ; 
But whare my nag may canter noo, 

I winna daur divine, 
But here I scratch my prosy pow, 

In labour for a line — 

All hail ! then, his tail then, 
I'll turn it to the breeze ; 

An' veer noo, an' steer noo, 
For Cruden's Bogiebraes. 

Your grand epistle, winsome Willie, 
Revives again the bard o' Killie, 

An' gars my hardship stare : 
That lucky day it cam' to han', 
In wonder up the brae I ran, 

An' glowr'd an' gapit there. 
I really thought immortal Rab 

Was up, an' at his chanter, 



EPISTLES. 149 

Sae weel ye ape his gleesome gab. 
Whan on yer nag ye canter. 
Ye've dnng me, ye've flung me — 

Yer sang's a sang I trow. 
Parnassus' nine lasses 

Ye ken the way to woo, 

what a pang gaed through my heart ! 
Something like Envy's deadly dart — 

Wr muckle shame I say't : 

1 sabb'd, " Ye Buchan Muse, adieu ! 
Ye've prov'd a jilt to me, I trow, 

Tho' a' my heart ye hae't." 
I took my lyre, an' ower't I hung 5 

Like willow ower a stream, 
An' to the winds its notes I flung — 
A sad an' sombre theme : 
Auld Ugie, sae vogie, 

For mony a day afore, 

"Was weepin' an' creeping 

The Muses to implore. 

Apollo saw, and whisper'd low, 
" Ugie, thy bard shall never know 

A rival on thy banks ; 
But friendship warm, and free from art, 
Shall bind for aye his willing heart 

To Brother Crookedshanks." 
Sae, Willie, here's my horny paw, 

An' here's my heart to boot ; 



150 EPISTLES. 

Whan next we meet we'll nrak' it law 
Outower Grlen-ITgie's stout.* 
My sang noo, I'll bang noo, 

An' send it ower the hill — 
Sublime noo, I'll rhyme noo, 
An' that wi' richt guid wilL 

Whan I look back on days o' yore — 
Whan ower " langsyne" I pensive pore. 

An' think on what I was — 
Whan happy wi' my herdin' rung, 
Aside the kye I sat an' sung, 

I kentna what micht pass : 
Whan ower the Ugie's flowery sward ? 

I chas'd the busy bee, 
I little thought I'd turn a bard, 

An' sing a sang to thee ; 

Yet canty, an' y aunty, 

I'm here amang the lave — 

Aspirin', untirin', 

The shafts o' death to brave. 

But even then my heart wad swell, 
While herdin' in the dewy dale— 

An Eden then to me — 
Whan merry May, or jolly June, 
Inspir'd that ever-matchless tune, 

Ca'd Nature's Minstrelsy. 
I mind my heart wad flutter fast, 

An' rise in glorious glee, 

* Glen-Ugie distillery is famous for the strength of its whisky, which 
is here styled stout. 



EPISTLES. 151 

To see her mazy mantle cast 
A treasure on the lea ; 
I danc'd on't, I pranc'd on't, 

And thought rnysel' a king ; 
"While roim' me, aboon me, 

I heard the birdies sing. 

happy days, whan young an' gay, 

1 like a dreamin' angel lay 

On floVry Ugie-side ; 
Whan, like a fairy, fast I flew, 
To kiss the daisy dipt in dew, 

Or pu' the pink wi 3 pride ! 
An' even yet this heart o' mine 

Will battle care an' pain, 
Whan nestl'd saft in " Auld langsyne," 

I think them ower again : 

Nae mair tho' I'll share o' 
Their dear an' dreamy rest ; 

But Fancy shall prance aye 
Amang them an' be blest. 

Meantime I bid them a' adieu, 
An' turn my sang again to you. 

At Men' ship's biddin' bent : 
Our sunny days are a' awa' 3 
An' noo, half-smor'd amang the snaw. 

We ply our daily stent. 
We're baith upon life's stormy hill ; 

But keep your heart aboon ; 
We've roses sweetly blawin' still, 

An' daisies bloomin' roun'— 



152 EPISTLES. 

We'll sing aye, an' fling aye 

Our little cares awa' ; 
An' Fame yet, may claim yet, 

The Buchan bardies twa. 

Auld Buchan ! blessin's on her pow ! 
It sets my bosom on a low, 

To think that you an' I, 
Some sunny day, like brithers true, 
May bind a laurel roun' her brow, 

An' heeze her to the sky. 
Ower a' " the laurel'd land of song" 

We yet may crown her queen,— 
Spur up your nag amang the throng, 

An' blaw your chanter keen : 

There's lore in't, a store in't, 
Sae Willie come awa', 

We twa yet may craw yet, 
The crousest o' them a'. 

Immortal Rab, ye ken fu' weel, 
Was naething but a ploughman chiel, 

A plackless ploughman, lang ; 
Yet foremost in the beuk o' fame, 
Emblazon'd noo ye see his name, 

An' hear't in mony a sang ; 
An' you an' I may speel the tower, 

The tapless tower o' fame, 
Whan nobles sink amang the stour, 

Nor leave behind a name. 



EPISTLES. 153 

There's room yet to bloom yet ; 

The garden o' the Nine 
Outmatches the patches 

That dykes and wa's confine. 

Lat Fancy leave her dreamy grove, 
An' roam at Trill, like Xoah's dove, 

Alang her mazy way ; 
She winna find its twa extremes, 
Tho' fleet she flee as solar beams, 

The langest simmer day. 
It's wider than the wavy sea, 

Frae Laplan' to the line ; 
It's boundless as eternity, 

The garden o' the Xine — 

Wi 3 bowers in't an' flowers in't, 
That mortals hinna seen ; 

We'll pu' them an' strew them 
Aroun' our Buchan queen. 

Come, bauldly enter ! never fear, 
Tho' Learnin' wi' a college sneer 

Her classic lugs may cock, 
To see twa clowns like you an' I 
Amang the bowers o' poesy, 

We'll sing an' lat her mock ; 
Though we be doom'd to labour sair, 

Wi' independent brow, 
"We'll proudly shaw our passport there, 

An' priinest flowers may pu', 



154 EPISTLES. 

Whan learnin' adornin 5 

Some classic devotee, 
May pass them an' lose them, 

For a' her Latin e'e. 

But, "Willie, I maun bridle draw, 
Tor chanticleer begins to craw, 

An' hails anither day ; 
I've canter'd on a winter nicht, 
Through win' an' snaw, an' noo maun licht, 

An' en' my lifeless lay. 
May brose an' bannocks braid be thine, 

An' happy be your ha' : 
I winna wish you wealth nor wine, 

But aye a plack to draw : 

For riches bewitches, 

An' leads the heart astray ; 

An' min' aye that wine aye 
Grars folk forget to pray. 

Lang may yer " Buchan lassie dear" 
The pretty flowers o' virtue wear, 

An' lang may she be thine, 
An' lang may love her bosom warm, 
The wintry days o' age to charm, 

Whan summer days decline ; 
An' lang, Willie ! mony a lang, 

May ye be spar'd to sing, 
Till wi' the echos o' yer sang 

Yer native mountains ring. 



ErisTLES. 155 



Yer paw noo I'll thraw noo, 
An' dicht my rhymin' quill 

Yer servant, maist fervent, 
Yer blither, 

Peter Still. 

Millbank, January, 1843. 



To Mr. Gr. M. 5 D- 



(Written on learning that he was a bridegroom.) 

Dear Gr — , sax towmons noo liae fled, 

Sin' first I tried the rhymin' trade : 

An' mony a senseless sang an' sonnet 

Hae sprung frae 'neath my auld blue bonnet 

Some grave, some gay, an' some pathetic ; 

Some lyric lilts, an' some politic ; 

Some sent to poets far awa', 

An' some to chiels I never saw ; 

Some here, some there ; but, strange to tell, 

I ne'er sent aught yet to yoursel' : 

Nae that 1 didna think it due — 

For few hae been sae kind as you — ■ 

But aye some ither whirligig 

Was busy underneath my wig, 

An' kept my mind in sic a flutter, 

I couldna think about the matter. 



156 EPISTLES. 

I'll ablins get but little thank ; 
Yet deil-ma-care — this ugly blank 
In my poetic panorama, 
At last intil't I mean to cram a 
Sang or sermon, just by chance, 
An' soun' your name in rhyme for once. 

Apropos, then, the time's propitious — 
Because my muse is half suspicious 
(An' seldom wrang ye yet hae kent her) 
Ye deem yersel' about to enter 
Some state o' bliss unkent to mortals, 
Atween auld Terra's icy portals ; 
Some dreamy intellectual Eden, 
Like that an angel mak's his bed in : 
But by my Pegasus so wild, 
I muckle fear you'll be beguil'd. 

Nae doubt a wife's a precious prize, 
The best we find aneath the skies, 
Gin Hymen guide us to a guid ane : 
(The L — d pre serve you frae a bad ane.) 
Yet, as a brither, lat me tell you, 
That something's certain aye to ail you : 
Free as the moorcock 'mang the heather, 
Or swinging in the marriage tether, 
Depend upon't that auld King Care 
"Will try your temper less or mair, 
An' thief-like lurk about yer ha ? , 
Till frae the warld yer ta'en awa\ 
Some pleasures that ye lang hae wantit 
May noo be to yer wishes grantit ; 



EPISTLES. 157 

Yet. on the ither lian' be brought on 
Some cares that ye hae little thought on. 
It's hard to say, till ance we try, 
What snares afore us lurkin' lie. 

Thus, whan a stranger tak's the road on 
Some teniptin' path he never trod on, 
He little kens what bogs air banks, 
What ditches, dykes, an' miry stanks 
He has to wade, to jump, or plump in, 
Till ance he's sinkin' to the rump in 
Some ugly mire, or heedless rins on, 
Till, whack — a stane he braks his shins on ; 
Syne rues that e'er he left the road 
On whilk he aft had safely trod. 

Yet, to be candid an 5 proceed, 
That teniptin' path may ablins lead 
Through gow'ny glens an' shady bowers, 
By siller streams befring'd wi' flowers, 
Whare bees sip honey a' the day, 
An' lichtsome lammies sportive play ; 
Whare birdies sing in brake or tree — 
In short, an Eden to the e'e. 

Yet here although it chance to lead him, 
An ? pleasure for a moment feed him, 
Some rascal root or broken bramble 
May trip his tae an' gar him tumble ; 
Some wickit wasp or gleg may sting him ; 
Some whirlwind in the stream may ding him : 



158 EPISTLES. 

Some thun'er-storm may burst aboon him, 
An' waterspout descend an' drown him — 
But truce ! — 'tis clear as these my rhymes, 
That " man was made to mourn" at times ; 
Sae here I quit my illustrations, 
Nor langer try a bridegroom's patience. 

The bonnie bride you're set yer heart on 
May care or sorrow never dart on ; 
For tho' as yet I hinna seen 
The lovely lustre o' her e'en, 
I'm tauld she's bloomin', plump an' pretty, 
An' weel can lilt a Scottish ditty : 
Sae, for yer sake, my guid auld cronnie, 
I wish her just as weel as ony. 

I hope before ye made the bargain, 
Ye thum'd ilk phrenologic organ, 
An' studied Combe for weeks thegither, 
Afore ye spak' about the tether ; 
An' didna set yer love alane 
Upon the lustre o' her e'en. 

You'll mind I tauld you weel about it ; 
An' tho' ye hauflins seem'd to doubt it, 
I'll pledge my aith in doggrel rhyme, 
Gin e'er we meet again in time, 
I'll tell you by her bumps alane, 
Her fauts or virtues ane by ane. 
An' hark ye, when I come to see you, 
Some sage advice I mean to gie you, 



EPISTLES. 159 

'Bout Nursery Rhymes an' Nursery Rattles, 
'Bout teethin'-rings an' penny whittles ; 
Meantime be learnin' " "Willie Winkle,"* 
( Vide series third o' " Whistle Binkie ;") 
An' whan I chance to come across ye, 
Ye'se get instructions, viva voce. 

Now Gr , to end my cadgy canter. 

May never Fate nor fell mishanter, 
Disturb the joys I wish sincerely, 
To cluster roun' you late an' early — 
May Father Time, as on he goes, 
Ne'er catch you wi' a bluidy nose ; 
Nor broken shins ; nor clutches red, 
Rivin' the hair frae aff yer head — 
May never Winter's midnicht roar, 
Assail you greetin' at the door, 
Nor death-like in the stack-mou' cow'rin', 
Nor ower the rigs in terror scourin', 
While peats, or stanes, or cudgels cruel, 
Pursue fast-fungin' frae your jewel ; 
But cheerfu' by the chimla cheek, 
May ye, at ease, yer lowmans beek, 
An' Peace an' Peggie grace yer ha', 
Till haffets whiter than the snaw, 
Down ower yer happy temples thinly fa'. 

P. Still. 

Milleank, Nov., 1843. 



* A first-rate Nursery song, by Mr. William Miller, author of " Nursery 
Rhymes." 



160 EPISTLES. 



TO Mr. J. MILNE. 

AUTHOR OE " THE WIDOW AND HER SON *. 
A BOROUOH TALE OE 1782, IN FOUR CANTOS." 

Dear Sir, while winter rides amain 

Ower Buchan's desolated plain ; 

An 5 nicht her sable mantle flings 

On Boreas' snaw-encnmber'd wings ; 

Fu' blythe aside the evening ingle, 

Whare mammy, dad, an' wee-things mingle, 

I scratch an' scrape my prosy noddle, 

An' tune ance mair my Bnchan fiddle ; 

Intent this nicht afore I sleep, 

Its knotty strings again to sweep, 

An' send yon south my thoughts in rhyme, 

Or rhyme an' prose commix'd sublime. 

I pledg'd my word, that nicht we met, 
To shore you something cauld or het ; 
Sae here inspir'd by memory's licht, 
Whilk now has plac'd you in my sicht, 
I'm seatit on my nag, right proud, 
Resolv'd to make that promise guid. 



EriSTLES. 161 

I've nae pretence to education — 
It wadna suit my humble station ; 
But frae my heart sincere I'll sing, 
Tho' tuneless, as a broken string; 
An' as I ken yer sterlin' merit, 
In true poetic, frien'ly spirit, 
(Tho' short the time we spent wi' ither,) 
I mean to treat you as a brither : 
For hearts congenial, when they're met, 
Are soon to ane anither knit ; 
'Tis Nature's law, an' dear to me 
The sons o' song shall ever be. 
Let prosy mortals mock an' jeer, 
But this I'll say withouten fear ; 
The muses sons in ilka age, 
Sin' Daddy Time first trod the stage, 
Hae been o' men the pick an' wale, 
The vera life o' life itsel' ; 
An' but for them 'tis clear as light, 
The prosy world wad die outright. 

Say, what a barren blank were spring, 
Did lark or linnet never sing ? 
The infant bud — the opening flower — 
The fragrant grove — the leafy bower, 
Wad lose one half their sweet perfume, 
An' sickly languish in their bloom. 

Just so, the dull prosaic thrang, 
Without the poet's magic sang, 
(Tho' sma' the price they set upon't,) 
Wad shortly feel an unco want ; 

L 



162 



EPISTLES. 



An' tho' alive wad sleep for ever ? 
As dull an' dead's a frozen river ; 
Or like a fiddle wantin' strings ; 
Or like a lark wi' clippit wings — 
A crackit flute — a broken whistle., 
Or, to be brief, a wither'd thistle. 

Your " Tale" about the hapless widow, 
Langsyne I got a glorious feed o', 
But little thought whan first I read it, 
That e'er I'd greet the bard that made it: 
But noo, sin' Fate has will'd it sae, 
I hope we'll brithers be for aye ; 
'Twad be a feather in my bonnet, 
Your list o' Men's, were I upon it ; 
An' tho' my merit's unco sma', 
I fain wad hope you'll make it law, 
That Milne an' the " Buchan clown" 
Be frien's, till Time's last sun gae down. 

My rhyme wi' egotistic clatter, 
It wadna set me to bespatter ; 
But this, at least, I may reveal, 
I'm just a simple, rhymin' chiel ; 
Can' shed a tear, withouten shame, 
Whan duty seems the same to claim ; 
At ither times can laugh as loud 
As thunder burstin' frae the cloud ; 
Can look an' think whan ithers clatter, — 
But ne'er hae learned the way to flatter ; 
Can love my frien's as lang's they're true,- 
"Whan fause, can simply say, Adieu; 



EPISTLES. 163 

Can swig a waucht o' water clear, 
Or loom a jug o' reamin' beer; 
Can even taste the " mountain dew," 
An* ance or twice was tum'lin' fou. 
In short, I'm just a " country clown," 
An" such, I beg, you'll set me down ; 
An' should we chance to meet again, 
You'll see I've tauld the truth fu' plain. 

As for yoursel', I'll tell you plainly. 
I'd own you as a brither fainly : 
Your phrenologic organs, sleely 
I scrutiniz'd them pretty freely, 
Benevolence an' Veneration. 
I mark'd them full wi' exultation ; 
An' ithers a' to virtue leanin', 
Fu' plump an 5 roun', I gat my e'en on. 
'Twas ablins far frae manners guid, 
Yet polish'd peers hae been as rude ; 
Sae nae apology I'll mak', 
But simply lat you ken the fact. 

An' here my doggrel rhyme I'll en't, 
An' ower the Don shall shortly sen't ; 
"Whatever price you set upon it, 
In twa short hours, aff loof, I've done it : 
An' fain wad crave an early answer. 
Dated frae aff your winged prancer ; 
An' wi' your leave, without a s wither. 
I'll prent an' publish baith thegither, 
l2 



164 EPISTLES. 

Meantime, adieu ! — lang may you sing, 
Unscath'd by a' the ills that cling- 
To feeble man in this low yale, 
Whare for a while he's doom'd to dwell ; 
An' whan at last in ripe auld age, 
You quit o' time the tiresome stage, 
Ayont the bonnie mornin' star, 
May songs sublimer — sweeter far, 
In concert wi' the ransoni'd throng, 
For ever warble frae your tongue. 

P. Still. 

Millbank, February, 1844. 



TO Mb. WILLIAM THOM, INVERURY, 

AUTHOK OE " THE BLIXD BOY'S PRANKS." 



" See, richly clad in native worth, 
Yon bard of Nature venture forth, 

In simple, modest tale ; 
Applauding millions catch the song — 
The raptur'd rocks the notes prolong, 

And hand them to the gale. 

Tannahill. 



Dear Willie, bard o' Ury's banks, 

what a feast " The Blind Boy's Pranks" 

Hae been to me an' mine ! 
The miser ower his hoarded treasure, 
Gat never sic a draught o' pleasure, 

Nor drunkard ower his wine ; 



EPISTLES. 165 

Nae a' the great folks' dainty dishes, 

Had they been plac'd afore me, 
Wad been sae welcome to my wishes, 
Or brought sic raptures ower me. 
Excnse then, my muse then, 

Wha fondly sings yer praise, 
For dearly, sincerely 
I like yer bonnie lays. 

" The Blind Boys Pranks" sae terse an' bonnie, 
Never hae been excell'd by ony, 

In country or in town, 
Since e'er the wanton bard o' Ayr 
Forsook this weary warld o' care, 

To sing ayont the moon. 
Blythe Hogg, in mony a witchin' line, 

Grart numbers nicely clink ; 
But he's awa', an' aye sin' syne 

It's gien me pain to think 

That Scotlan' was dotlin', 

Till ance " The Blind Boy's Pranks," 

Sae touchin', bewitchin', 
Appear 'd on Ury's banks. 

Auld Scotlan' noo may dry the tear 
That's dim'd her e'e for mony a year, 

An' sigh for Burns nae mair ; 
But mither-like creep down aside ye, 
An' spread her couthie wings to hide ye 

Frae poverty an' care. 
She needna blush to own the bard 

0' Ury's " fairy wave ;" 



166 EPISTLES. 

For whare's the sang she ever heard. 
Like " Jeanie's lowly grave ?" 
Tho' cheerless, 'tis peerless, 

An' lays yer bosom bare — 
Sae feelin', revealin' 

The love that lingers there. 

Lang may ye live to court the lasses, 
That dwall on bonnie mount Parnassus, 

An' aye their favour gain, 
Till Fame rejoicin' ower her bard, 
Canter on ilka flowery sward 

'Tween John o' Groat's an' Spain. 
I hope to see " Dark Benachie" 

Eclipse " Dark Lochnagar ;" 
Fair Garioch's howes a' hallow'd be, 

An' bards come frae afar, 

To wander an' ponder 
Whare Ury wimples on, 

" To meet wi' an' greet wi' " 
" Its mountain cousin Don." 

Fareweel, dear bard ! fareweel — sing on : 
Tho' " gentle Ury" an' " dark Don" 

Again I never see, 
Till death my spark o' life congeal, 
I'll breathe a prayer for Willie's weaL 

Tho' yet unkent to me ; 
Accept my namely, rustic strain — 

'Tis a' I hae to gie, 
For riches an' the muses' train. 

But seldom can agree ; 



EPISTLES. 167 



Xae matter, Auld Nature 

Is free alike to a', 
An' charms us, an' warms us, 

Tho' poverty may gnaw. 

P. Still. 

Millbank, March 22, 1841. 



TO SIR MICHAEL BRUCE OF STENHOUSE 
AND SCOTSTOWN, BARONET. 

Hail, honour'd Sir ! my Buchan lyre, 
Whilk aft I've strung in bog an 5 mire, 
Nae dreaming that a spark o' fire 

Was in its strings, 
It seems that you an' yours admire 

Its hamely springs. 

Half craz'd wi' pride, as soon's I kent it, 

Obscurity's dark veil I rent it, 

An' rais'd my humble head undauntit, 

An' leukit roun', 
Whan, lo ! my hallan seem'd new paintit, 

My night like noon. 



168 EPISTLES. 

The path that erst was dark afore me, 
An' far frae Fame's gay garden bore me, 
Was sae transformed, a glow came o'er me 

0' pleasure pure, 
An' thorny brakes that aften tore me 

Became a bower. 

In that same bower I'm seated noo, 
Wi' nor'lan' rhyme my noddle fu', 
My Pegasus — lark never flew 

On blyther wing 
Whan warbling o'er the morning dew, 

To greet young Spring. 

Its ablins far frae manners good 
My sang on you thus to intrude, 
But simple bards aft turn sae proud 

At sight o' laurels, 
Their passions winna be subdued 

Like lover's quarrels. 

Can he who watches through the night, 
An' pants to see the morning light, 
Regardless turn awa' his sight, 

Or close his eyes. 
Whan Phoebus gilds wi' splendour bright 

The orient skies ? 

Can he who watches maiden's e'e, 
In hopes ae kindly blink to see, 
Turn coldly from Ids chosen she, 

Whan love's first tear 
Adown her cheek spontaneously 

Comes trembling clear ? 



EPISTLES. 169 

The wretch, whose heart-strings lang were torn 
By wizard Want, or cankert Scorn, — 
By Fame or Fvrtwnt haply borne 

Beyond their power — 
Say, will he frae his patrons turn 

WF canldrife glower \ 

Xae mair can I my muse subdue, 

An' careless, thankless turn frae you ; 

The heart that's thrilling through an' through 

Wi 3 love sincere, 
Maun speak its thoughts, an' speak them true. 

To prince or peer. 

'Tis nature's law, the heart maun swell, 
And kindly back to kindness thrill ;* 
The very flowers that deck the dale, 

See how they spring 
When shelter'd frae the frosty gale 

By Phoebus' wing. 

An', eke. whan gane is winter rude, 
The little minstrels o' the wood 
Pour forth their songs o' gratitude, 

An' sae maun I : 
Cauld is the heart that e'er subdued 

A gratefu' sigh. 

Shall he whose sire, at Bannockburn, 
Made Caledonia's faes to mourn, 

* " The heart must leap kindly back to kindness."— Byron. 



170 



EPISTLES. 



Frae Scottish bardie lift a birn 

That shook his shanks, 
An' that same bardie thoughtless turn, 

An' ne'er say, Thanks ! 

No ! by a poet's exultation, 

Whan Fame proclaims his elevation, 

I'll pay in print, before a nation, 

The tribute due, 
And tender here my Dedication, 

Kind Sir, to you. 

This mark o' gratitude sincere, 
Should ye accept, how proud I'll rear 
Hope's glorious standard o'er the bier 

0' dead Despair, 
And sing, in pleasure's mildest sphere, 

Farewell to care ! 

Farewell to woes and sorrows past ; 
Farewell to Poortith's bitter blast ! 
My cares and fears ance from me cast, 

How blythe I'll sing ! 
And bloom and blossom to the last, 

Beneath your wing. 

Accept it then, I fain wad pray, 

And bid the poet bless for aye 

The generous hand that pav'd his way 

To Fame's gay bower— 
I'll do it to my dying day, 

And dying hour. 



EPISTLES. 171 

Meantime, my thanks, sincere an' true, 
I send to Lady Bruce and you, 
And may ye never, never rue 

What ye hae done 
To strew wi' comforts, kind an' new, 

The road I run. 

Lang may your much-lov'd, honour'd name 

Be dear to Virtue and to Fame ; 

May ne'er the fiends Remorse an' Shame 

Your peace molest, 
But Happiness aye find a hame 

Within your breast. 

Farewell ! my muse I maun restrain, 
But aye while Reason rules my brain — ■ 
"While throbs my heart wi' love or pain, 

Or pleasure's thrill—* 
Wi' gratitude will I remain 

Yours, Peter Stile. 



FROM MR. A. HARPER, ABERCHIRDER, 

TO THE AUTHOR. 

Dear Peter, art thou aye alive, 
And weel, an' singin' sangs, man ? 

Or hae the wasps 0' some wild hive 

Clean throwe thee dung their stangs, man ? 



172 EPISTLES. 

The pleasure I can ne'er descrive 

Thy kind epistle gae me, 
And I shall answer it belyye, 

Or may the whitracks hae me 

To gnaw this day ! 

Up Tay hast thou made out a trip, 

Whaur scenes sublime astound thee ? 
Or sit'st thou Still by Tibby's hip, 

Wi' love's fair sprouts around thee ? 
Fu' fain to pree her hinny lip — 

what a peerless pleasure ! 
Mair blest, perchance, than they wha grip 

Great souds o' hidden treasure, 

By nicht or day. 

What news about the Buchan dames ? 

What news o' bonnie TJgie ? 
Sae weel's I like thy pleasing themes, 

And aye they mak' me yogie, 
Whilst straying lone by Deveron's stream, 

Or on the banks o' Bogie — 
Lang may the muse inspire thy dreams, 

Leuk fortune fair or fog gie 

On me that day ! 

Few bards there be in Scotlan' born, 

Mat either mird or anter, 
To sing sae sweet at e'en or morn, 

Sin' Robin tint his chanter, 



EPISTLES. 173 

An' Hogg flang by liis t outing-horn — 

I downa fraise nor flanter — 
But this I hae baith " said an' sworn," 

Sae may I 'scape mishanter 

By nicht an' day. 

Tho' whyles I ettle at the trade, 

Wi 5 erfsome fear an' trembling, 
The fient a inuckle o't I've made — 

I speak without dissembling — 
At grammar-schules I ne'er was bred, 

Nor gabbit in a college ; 
Some strange wind-mills work i' my head ; 

But as for wasie knowledge — 

Whisht, whisht this day ! 

"Whan I leuk back on auld langseen, 

Whan falsehood was a ferlie, 
While skippin' o'er youth's flowery green, 

I whistled late an' early ; 
Or straying by the moonlight stream 

Wi' her I lo'ed sae dearly, 
Indulging hope's delicious dream — 

man ! but things leuk queerly 

Just noo-a-days ! 

Bards did presage an' iron age ; 

'Tis come, I've ta'en a notion — 
For hive's saft learn we've gas an' steam 

To put a' things in motion. 



174 EPISTLES. 

And wha can say what projects rare 
The sons o' men may form yet ? 

We'll a' be whirling i' the air 
Like corbies in a storm yet, 

Some windy day ! 

Waes me ! thir be fell kittle times, 

May weel cause consternation : 
In a 5 communities an' climes, 

Rage strife and agitation ; 
Sic follies yam, distress an' crimes 

As bleck imagination ; 
To spell them fully i' my rhymes, 

Wad spen' an inundation 

0' ink this day. 

The falsehood now 'mang fey mankind, 

Alas ! it dings me fairly ; 
A chiel dare hardly speak his mind, 

Wha lo'es to speak sincerely. 
wae betide the dochty tricks 

0' ilka sly curmudgeon ! 
There's great stramash 'bout politics. 

And mair about religion 

I trow this day ! 

Yet though there be a daftish clan, 
Douce bodies sudna mind them : 

There's mony a faithfu', honest man — 
Tho' hard the lot assign'd him — 



EPISTLES. 175 

In Britain braid, or Fairy Ian', 

Kend we but whaur to find them, 
We'd clutch them couthie by the han', 

And to our heartstrings bind them 

Fu' firm that day. 

G-ie me the man, whate'er his creed, 

Whase heart and tongue 's acquainted ; 
Wha speaks the truth but fear or dread, 

Howe'er he may be taunted. 
" A friend in need 's a friend indeed ;" 

But whaur's he whan he's wanted ? 
Wha will for wretched poortith plead, 

And ne'er be dais'd nor daunted 

By knares that day I 

Lang may'st thou wind thy winsome reed ; 

G-ood angels aye watch o'er thee ! 
Till grey hairs grace thy honour'd head, 

And kith an' kin adore thee : 
And when thou'rt laid amang the dead, 

May poets a 5 deplore thee, 
And sound thy praise in mournfu' leid, 

And tenderest tears drap o'er thee 

That waesome day ! 

A. Harpee. 

Aberchirder, February, 1845, 



SONGS. 



PEGGIE MUNRO. 

Air. — " Lass o' Glenshee." 

On the bosom of Buchan there blooms a sweet 
flow'ret, 

None fairer or purer in Britain doth blow — 
The Rose of the Ugie — ye angels watch o'er it ! 

That Rose is my darling, sweet Peggie Mnnro. 
But where shall I find, in the bounds of creation, 

An image to picture her bosom of snow ! 
Away with the lily — the fairest carnation — 

No emblems are they of sweet Peggie Munro. 

Ye breezes that blow o'er the groves of sweet myrtle, 

Ye gales of the morning be swift as the roe ; 
Thou emblem of chastity — love-loving turtle, 

bring me an emblem of Peggie Munro. 
Ye Muses that sing in the courts of Apollo, 

bring me the flowers on Parnassus that blow ; 
Ye zephyrs that sigh on the breast of the billow, 

waft me an emblem of Peggie Munro. 



SONGS. 177 

But why am I raving* ! 'tis vain to implore you, 

"lis not to be found in the regions below ; 
Her image ! no, it was never before you — 

So spotless and pure is sweet Peggie Munro. 
Ye angels, defend her, and keep her unstained, 

And watch all her steps while she wanders below ; 
Her eyes weeping o'er me, 'twere Paradise gained, 

To die on the bosom of Peggie Munro. 



THE GOWDEN RING. 

Jamie, whare's the gowden ring ? 

An' whare's the necklace rare ? 
An' whare's the pretty velvet string, 

To tie my raven hair ? 
An' whare's the gloves — the gaudy gioves- 

Or silken gown sae fine ? 
An' whare's the pretty flowers o' love. 

Ye said wad a' be mine ? 

Whan last we met, Jamie, think 

On vows ye swore to me ! 
Reca' the burnie's flow'ry brink, 

Reca' the birken tree. 
Ye ken ye vow'd — I heard ye plead, 

An' couldna say ye na — 
Jamie ! hand my heavy head, 

It's like to rend in twa, 

31 



178 songs. 

To name the ring, or necklace braw, 

Nae mair in time I'll daur ; 
But whare's the heart ye wil'd awa — 

Jamie ! tell me whare ? 
I'll hie me to the burnie side, 

An' aye I'll seek it there ; 
I'll be the burnie's dowie bride, 

An' never fash ye mair ! 

I'll tell the burnie a' my waes, 

I'll tell the birken tree ; 
I'll kneel me on the gow'ny braes, 

An' aye I'll pray for thee ; 
An' to the bonny moon I'll sing, 

Aside the birken tree, 
An' I'll forget the gowden ring 

Ye fausely promised me. 



THE GLEN 0' THE WEST. 

kejs t ye the glen whare the wee burnie rows ? 
Or ken ye the bower whare the daffodil grows ? 
Or ken ye the lassie that languishes there, 

Like a shelterless flower in the keen mountain air ? 

1 wad tell ye her name, but my heart says me na, 
An' the glen maun be nameless an' kenless to a' ; 
An' there's nane in the warld kens the dool that I dree, 
Sin' the day that it first shed its licht on my e'e. 



SONGS. 179 

But, the glen 0' the west — the glen 0' the west, 
An' the lassie that dwalls in the glen 0' the west ; 
There's a glance in her e'ethat disturbs aye my rest, 
An' wiles me awa to the glen 0' the west, 

Y"et, I daurna be seen in yon lore-haunted glen, 
Tho' I dream o't an' sing o't, again an' again ; 
The lassie that wons in't wad welcome me there, 
But I daurna be seen in its bowers ony mair ; 
For her daddie has gowd, an' her mammie has pride, 
An' my lassie is doom'd to be some baron's bride ; 
While I, hapless wicht, at the tail 0' the plough, 
Wi' a pennyless purse, their ambition maun rue. 
But, the glen 0' the west — the glen 0' the west, 
An' the woun' that I gat i' the glen 0' the west, 
It will soon be my dead, an' whan ance I'm at rest, 
ye'll bury me deep i' the glen 0' the west. 



JEANIE'S LAMENT. 

Air — " Lord Gregory." 

I nevee thocht to thole the waes, 

It's been my lot to dree ; 
I never thocht to sigh sae sad, 

Whan first I sigh'd for thee. 
I thocht your heart was like mine ain, 

As true as true could be ; 
I couldna think there was a stain 

In ane sae dear to me. 
m2 



180 songs. 

Whan first amang the dewy flowers, 

Aside yon siller stream, 
My lowin' heart was press'd to yours. 

Nae purer did they seem — 
Nae purer seem'd the draps o' dew, 

The flowers on whilk they hung, 
Than seem'd the heart I felt in you, 

As to that heart I clung. 

But I was young an' thochtless then, 

An' easy to beguile ; 
My mither's warnin's hadna weight, 

'Bout man's deceitfu' smile ; 
But noo, alas ! whan she is dead, 

I've shed the sad, saut tear, 
An' hung my heavy, heavy head 

Aboon my father's bier ! 

They saw their earthly hope betray'd ; 

They saw their Jeanie fade ; 
They couldna thole the heavy stroke, 

An' baith are lowly laid ! 
Oh, Jamie ! — but thy name again 

Shall ne'er be breath'd by me, 
For speechless through yon gow'ny glen 

I'll wander till I die. 



SONUS. 181 



ROVIN' TAM. 

Air — " Duncan Gray." 

Rovin' Tain cam' doun the glen. 

Blythe, blythe an' cheery : 
" Nancy , will ye be mine ain ? 

Will ye be my dearie ?" 
Nancy blush'd, an' tnrn'd awa, 
Hadna will to say him na, 
Answer'd wi' a queer guffaw, 

" Me be yonr dearie ! 

" Swithe awa to Robin's Jean, 

Big, big an' bonnie ; 
Doun the dale to ' beauty's queen,' 

Sweet, sweet as honey ! 
Hae they baith beguil'd you, Tarn ? 
That's the reason here you cam' — 
Wae's my heart, my bonnie lam', 

Try, try my grannie !" 

Lang he pled his cause in vain, 

Sad, sad an' sorry ; 
Nancy wadna ease his pain, 

Yow'd 'twas her glory 0. 



182 SOSTGPS. 

Up he gat, wi' eldritch screamy 
Swearin' life was but a dream, 
Plunipit into Ugie's stream, 
Deep, deep an' miry ! 

Nancy scream'd, an 5 scream'd again ? 

Loud, loud an' eerie ; 
" Mercy, Tarn ! I'll be your ain — 

Yes, I'll be your dearie !" 
Sinkin' Tarn began to rise, 
Struggl'd sair to win the prize, 
On the bank the rover lies, 

"Wet, wet an' weary 0. 

Ere anither moon was gane, 

Licht as ony feather 0, 
Aff they went to bid Mess John 

Twine the marriage tether 0. 
Soon he twin'd it roun' the pair, 
"Wish'd them joy for eyermair — 
Muckle pleasure may they share, 

Lang, lang thegither 0. 



THE FAITHLESS WHISPER. 

I stood beside the Ugie's stream, 

Below the willow tree, 
An' gaz'd on ance the dearest spot 

On a' the warld to me i 



so> 183 

The spot whare Mary whisper'd low : — 

" I'm thine, an' only thine !" 
I thocht I heard that whisper still, 

An' saw again langsyne. 

I thocht I felt her bosom beat ; 

I thocht I heard her sigh ; 
I saw the tear upon her cheek, 

That on my heart did lie ! 
I gaz'd again — my e'en grew dim, 

The sun forgot to shine ; 
I grasp'd the aged willow tree, 

An' sabb'd aloud — " Langsyne !" 

I sunk upon the flowery sward ; 

I sunk upon my knee, 
An' leant my burnin' brow against 

The frien'ly willow tree : 
I clasp'd my han's upon my heart, — 

This heavy heart o' mine, 
An' pray'd aloud — "Blot out the past ; 

Forgie, forget langsyne ; 

" An' lat me never, never hear 

The faithless whisper mair ; 
An' lat me never, never see 

A face again sae fair !" 
Yet, risin' up, I thocht I saw't 

Like alabaster shine ; 
The faithless whisper haunts me yet 5 

An' drags me to langsyne. 



184 



SONGS. 



TE NEEDNA BE C0I7RTIN' AT ME. 

Air — " John Todd" 

Ye needna be courtin 5 at me, auld man, 

Ye needna be courtin' at me ; 
Ye're threescore an' three, and ye're blin' on an e 5 e, 

Sae ye needna be courtin' at me, auld man, 
Ye needna be courtin 5 at me. 

Stan 5 aff noo, an 5 just lat me be, auld man, 

Stan 5 aff noo, an 5 just lat me be ; 
" Ye're auld, an 5 ye 5 re cauld, an 5 ye 5 re blin 5 , an 5 
ye 5 re bald, 55 
An 5 ye 5 re nae for a lassie like me, auld man, 
Ye 5 re nae for a lassie like me. 

Hae patience, an 5 hear jne a wee, sweet lass, 

Hae patience, an 5 hear me a wee; 
I 5 ve gowpens o 5 gowd, an 5 an aumry weel stow 5 d, 
An 5 a heart that lo 5 es nane but thee, sweet lass, 
A heart that lo 5 es nane but thee. 

" I'll busk ye as braw as a queen, sweet lass, 

I'll busk you as braw as a queen ; 
I 5 ve guineas to spare, an 5 , hark ye, what 5 s mair, 

I 5 m only twa score an 5 fifteen, sweet lass, 
Only twa score an 5 fifteen. 55 



SONGS. 185 

Gae liame to your gowd, an 5 your gear, auld man, 
Gae hame to your gowd, an' your gear ; 

There's a laddie I ken, lias a heart like mine ain, 
An' to me he shall ever be dear, auld man, 
To me he shall ever "be dear. 

Get aff noo, an' fash me nae mair, auld man, 

Get aff noo an' fash me nae mair ; 
There's a something in love that your gowd canna 
move, 
I'll be Johnny's, altho' I gang bare, auld man, 
I'll be Johnny's altho' I gang bare. 



THE ROSE OF IXTERUGIE. 

Summeb wf its sweets are gane, 
An' Autumn wi 5 its gowden grain, 
An' bleak an' cheerless is the plain 

TThare rolls the winding Ugie : 
Fierce adown the frozen dale, 
"Winter bangs the heavy hail, 
An' ilka birdie hangs its tail 

'Mang branches bare by Ugie, 

But what care I for frost or snaw. 
Or a' the bitter blasts that blaw; 
I'll get my plaid, an' steal aw a 
To bonnie Inyerugie ; 



186 SONGS. 

Tlio' wintry winds are sabbin' sair, 
An' sweepin' Buchan's bosom bare, 
There blooms a flow'ret sweetly there, — 
The Rose of Inyerugie. 

The summer flowers that deck the lea, 
May charm the sense, an' please the e'e, 
But dearer far's the flower to me 

That blooms at Inyerugie ; 
what to me were summer's pride, 
Or autumn's riches, spreadin' wide, 
If slichtit by my promis'd bride, 

The Rose of Inyerugie. 

But, while I see her sunny smile, 
The bleakest, barest, barren isle, 
To me were paradise the while, 

Tho' far from Inyerugie ; 
Wi' her mine ain, come wae, come weel, 
Nae ither want through life I'll feel, 
But clasp her to my bosom leal, — 

The Rose of Inyerugie. 



THE DISAPPOINTED SAILOR. 

I stood, in the silence of night, 

Where Spring all her beauties had spread, 
And the moon all her magical light 

On the bosom of Nature had shed. 



SONGS. 187 

I press'd to my soft-swelling heart 

My lov'd one — my promised bride ; 
And I said, with a sigh, " We mnst part ! 

May the heavens, my love, be yonr gnide." 

She wept, and her beautiful hand 

I tremblingly grasped in mine ; 
And I swore, by the sea and the land, 

" My dearest, for ever I'm thine." 

She shook, like a leaf in the wind, 
And her eyes seem'd a fountain of love : 

Her vows I have sealed in my mind, 
And they're known and recorded above, 

One kiss ! and away I did go, 

Where ocean roll'd wavy and wide ; 

Relying that pnre as the snow, 

Was my sonl-chosen, beautiful bride. 

When afar on the moon-silver'd sea, 
In the sweetness and silence of night, 

Her image was ever with me, 

And I feasted on dreams of delight ! 

When the tempests of winter arose, 
And the billows were bursting on high ; 

When I fought in the thick of my foes, 
Still I thought upon her with a sigh. 

When the hills of old Albion, once more, 
And the white cliffs of Dover, drew near ; 

How I deem'd that my wand'rings were o'er, 
And I gaz'd for a while through a tear. 



188 SONGS. 

I hasted my treasure to claim ; 

I sought her with raptures divine ; 
I found — she had changed her name, 

And a ring on her finger did shine ! 

Hang a veil on the virgin of night ; 

Spread a mantle of black over me ; 
Tell the world that darkness is light : 

I'm away — I'm away to the sea ! 



THE WEE BLIND ROGUIE 0. 

Air — " My dear Highland Laddie 0." 

Deak were the days when my young heart, sae 

vogie 0, 
Was first made to bow to the wee blind roguie ; 
It flutter'd in my breast, like a new-cag'd canary 0, 
An' time sped awa, like a fleet-footit fairy 0. 

The glen wi' its buds an' its blossoms, sae bonnie 0, 
Seem'd a paradise afloat on a sweet sea o' honey 0, 
Whan I first staw awa to the dear banks o' Ugie 0, 
To fa' at the feet o' the wee blind roguie 0. 

what car'd I then for the cracks o' ilk cronie 0, 
Or the jokesan'the jeers o'myauldblythe grannie 0, 
An' what then to me were my caup or my coggie ; 
Sae fu' was my heart o' the wee blind roguie 0, 



songs. 189 

1*11 mind till I die on the lang broom, sae bloomy 0, 
That grow on the dear brae, sae lythesome an" 

gloomy 0, 
"Whan I first prest my heart to the heart o' my 

Peggie 0, 
An' sunk in the arms o ? the wee blind rognie 0. 

There's nae day sae dear as our young days, sae 

sunny 0, 
Whan our life-flowers are fraucht wi 3 their dew an' 

their honey 0, 
An* some bonnie lass gies our heart sic a shoggie 0, 
That we fa' in the arms o' the wee blind rognie 0, 



THE SAILOR'S DEPARTURE, 

Tis parting time, my Mary, 

We may not longer linger, 
But let me place, my Mary, 

This ring upon thy finger — - 
This ring upon thy finger, love, 

Twill mind you upon me ; 
'Twill mind you of our parting, love. 

When I am far at sea. 

The anchor's weigh'd, my Mary : 
The breeze is briskly blowing ! 

And o'er the sea. my Mary= 
Thy sailor now is goino- — 



190 SONGS. 

Thy sailor now is going, love, 
Full many a league from thee : 

say thou wilt be constant, love, 
When I am far at sea. 

Farewell ! I go, my Mary, 

Upon thy love relying : 
Be true, be true, my Mary, 

For time is fleetly flying — 
For time is fleetly flying, love, 

And I'll be home from sea, 
And never more — never, love, 

I'll sail away from thee. 



PEGGIE'S SOLILOQUY. 

Air — " Fly we to some desert isle." 

Whitsunday will soon be here, 
Birdies beck to ane anither ; 

Pease an' beans begin to brier ; 
Mild an' sunny grows the weather ; 

Lammies bleat on ilka brae, 

Music pours frae ilka spray, 

Flow'rets court the fost'rin' ray, 

An' merry May will brak' my tether. 

Hame again to Ugie-side, 
Happy, happy will I dander, 

There to be my Willie's bride, 
Never mair in time to wander : 



SONGS. 191 

Cantie iu yon cosie biel, 
I will lo'e my laddie leal, 
An' do my best to keep him weel, 
An' nurse his lowin' love, sae tender. 

Wi' my fee I'll buy a wheel, 

Sarks an' sheets I'll spin fu' clever, 

Winter's cauld he sanna feel ; 
I'll be blythe an' eident ever. 

Haste awa ye weary hours, 

Bloom again ye simmer flowers, 

A' we wish will then be ours, 

An' syne till death we'll thank the Giver, 



TELL ME WILL YE GO. 

Air — " Kelvin Grove/' 

tell me will ye go, bonnie lassie 0, 

Where the Ugie's waters flow, bonnie lassie ? 

Where the daisy blooms unseen, 

On the misty meadow green, 

Where I wander aft alane, 
Bonnie lassie ? 

Wad ye wander there wi' me, bonnie lassie 0, 

When the dew is on the lea, bonnie lassie ? 

When the balmy zephyrs creep, 

O'er the moon-begilded deep, 

An' the warld is hush'd asleep, 

Bonnie lassie ? 



192 sonos. 

I wad press my heart to thine, bonnie lassie 0, 
An' confess the flame divine, bonnie lassie ; 
"With my arms around you cast, 
An' my bosom beatin' fast, 
Swear to love you to the last, 
Bonnie lassie 0. 

your blushin' cheek reveals, bonnie lassie 0, 
What your burnin' bosom feels, bonnie lassie 0, 

An' the glances o' your e'e, 

they're dearer far to me 

Than the honey to the bee, 
Bonnie lassie 0. 

haste an' come awa, bonnie lassie 0, 
For nae langer we'll be twa, bonnie lassie 0, 
But we'll twine our hearts in ane, 
An' for evermair, my Jean, 
Ye'se be Ugie's peerless queen, 
Bonnie lassie 0. 



TO MARY. 

Maky, dinna look sae cauld, 

Nor meet me wi' disdain, love, 
" For in my bosom's benmost fauld 

For ever ye'll remain, love ;" 
Reca' the gowden days gane by, 
Whan first ye breathed the tender sigh, 
An' fondly vowed by yonder sky 
Your heart was a' my ain, love. 



SONGS. 193 

Those blissfu' hours I spent wi' thee, 
Still ronn' my memory twine, love ; 

lat that soul-besiegin' e'e 
Resume its wonted shine, love. 

Ae kindly look deign to spare ! 

That cloudy e'e is a' my care : 

"Whan love's young tear was tremblin' there, 
I thought that e'e divine, love. 

Reca' the hours ye spent wi' me 

In yonder misty glen, love ; 
Reca' the witchfu' willow tree, 

An' sweetly smile again, love : 
A cloud may dim the brightest noon 
That e'er was seen the warid aroun', 
Yet gloriously the sun gang down 

Ayont the western main, love. 



" WOMAN'S WITCHFU' E'E." 

I like the sun that shines so bright ; 

I like the modest moon ; 
I like the stars, the planets too, 

An' a' the orbs aboon ; 
I like to see the mornin' star 

Blink bonnie o'er the sea ; 
But there's an orb outshines them a', 

'Tis " woman's witchfu' e'e." 



194 songs. 

Ae beam o' love frae that blest orb 

Gries youth a livelier hue, 
An' drives awa the clouds o' fate 

Frae sorrow's sickly brow, 
Dispels the darkest shades o' wo 

That heart is doom'd to dree : 
There's nae an orb in yonder sky 

Like " woman's witchfu' e'e." 

'Tis there the heart pours forth its woes, 

Ower sad for tongue to share ; 
The tears o' love, and pity's tears, 

Speak nameless secrets there ; 
'Tis there the tremblin' lover reads 

The soul's sincerity : 
Oh ! whare's the orb in yonder sky 

Like " woman's witchfu' e'e ?" 

Te powers that watch my countless steps, 

An' a' my wanderings ken, 
In this my weary pilgrimage, 

In pleasure or in pain : 
"Whare'er my nameless feet may roam, 

Whate'er I'm doom'd to dree, 
lat me live beneath the light 

0' " woman's witchfu' e'e !" 



SONGS. 195 



ON HER MAJESTY QUEEN VICTORIA'S 
SECOND VISIT TO SCOTLAND. 

(Written at Dundee, September 11th 1844.) 
Air — " Kelvin Grove." 

ye'ee welcome to Dundee, bonnie lassie 0, 
And happy may yon "be, bonnie lassie ; 
On the banks o' " queenly Tay," 
There are joyful hearts to-day, 
Should they ne'er again be gay, 
Bonnie lassie 0. 

There is loye in ilka e'e, bonnie lassie 0, 
And its a' to welcome thee, bonnie lassie ; 
For our Scottish hearts are leal, 
Though they're aften doom'd to feel 
The heavy hand o' Peel, 
Bonnie lassie 0. 

But we maunna tell to thee, bonnie lassie 0, 
A' the ills we're doomed to dree, bonnie lassie ; 
For your bosom wadna thole 
A' the waes that we could tell, 
Should our tide of sorrows roll, 
Bonnie lassie 0. 
*2 



196 songs. 

But you're welcome to the Tay, bonnie lassie 0, 
And we'll liaud a holiday, bonnie lassie ; 
E'en the tatter'd sons o' toil, 
Tho' they live in want the while, 
Fain wad meet you wi' a smile, 
Bonnie lassie 0. 

They hae loving hearts an' true, bonnie lassie 0, 
Tho' they're sinking sadly noo, bonnie lassie 0, — 
But ye maunna, maunna see 
Ilka hollow, hopeless e'e, 
That wad weepin' welcome thee, 
Bonnie lassie 0. 

May the tide of pleasure flow, bonnie lassie 0, 
Round your heart where'er you go, bonnie lassie 0; 

'Mang our heathy mountains blue, 

May you find a welcome true, 

And your Royal Consort too, 
Bonnie lassie 0. 

Lang and happy be your reign, bonnie lassie 0, 
O'er a people a' your ain, bonnie lassie ; 
And may Peace for ever smile 
On our bonnie British isle, 
Crown'd wi' Plenty a' the while, 
Bonnie lassie 0. 

Whan your earthly reign is done, bonnie lassie 0, 
And Eternity begun, bonnie lassie 0, 

'Neath a never-fading croun, 

Far ayont the bonnie moon, 

May we meet wi' you aboon, 
Bonnie lassie 0. 



SONGS. 197 

THE WIDOW'S LAMENT. 

Air — " Good night and joy be wi you a." 

I have lov'd the flowery howes, 
Where Buchan's bonnie burnies row ; 

And I have lov'd the broonry knowes, 
Where rasps and roddins wildly grow ; 

Her gowany glens, her sunny braes — 
dearly hae I loy'd them a' ; 

1 wander'd there in early days, 

Wi' him that death has taen awa, 

I lov'd to list the lintie's sang, 

The lo'esome laverock's blythesome lay ; 
The mavis 5 mellow notes ainang 

The green, the merry woods o' May ; 
I sang as blythe, as free o' care, 

As ony, ony o' them a' ; 
But noo I sigh an' sab fn' sair, 

For him that death has taen awa. 

Buchan's howes are bonnie howes, 
Their like on earth ye winna see ; 

As clear, as pure ilk burnie flows, 
As flow'd my Willie's love to me : 

1 like them yet, though noo they're lane, 

dearly do I like them a', 
Though there I'll never meet again 
Wi' him that death has taen awa. 



198 sosras. 

They mind me aye on Willie's smile. 

They mind me aye on "Willie's e'e, 
They mind me aye on Willie's toil, 

For mony a day he toil'd for me : 
They aye bring back the past to me — 

They're dear memorials ane an' a', 
But I wad leave them a' to be 

Wi' him that death has taen awa* 



FAREWELL TO MY JEAN. 

Air — " Captain 0' Kean" 
(INSCRIBED TO MB. PETER STILL.) 

Whase bosom ne'er heav'd wi' love's sweet-thrilling 
anguish ? 
What heart hath no sorrowful sympathies 
known ? — 
lang I've been doom'd thus to sigh and to languish 
For the loves and the friendships o' days that are 
flown ! 
Ilk swift-fleeting year draws the warm-flowing tear, 

As sad I revisit ilk soul-moving scene — 
While by this clear fountain, or up yon rude moun- 
tain, 
I pensively wander and weep for my Jean, 



SONGS. 199 

How charming the days when I roarn'd wi' my 
dearie, 
Attending our flocks these wild valleys amang ! 
Whan we dane'd on the knowe round the rose-tree 
sae cheery, 
Or wade the pure burnie that wimpled alang : — 
! guileless was she, as a lamb on the lea, 

Like dew upon violets her mild, melting e'en, 
Her smile sae endearing my artless heart cheering — 
sweet are youth's pleasures ! dear was my 
Jean ! 

On the flow'r-mantled thorn still the linnet chants 
gaily ; 
Primroses an' daisies still deck the green brae ; 
The lambkins dance glad in the warm sunny valley, 

But sad is my bosom — my widowed heart wae ; 
For deep hangs the gloom o'er yon cauld, silent 
tomb, 
Whare sleeps my lov'd darling sae lowly alane ! 
With smile sae endearing nae mair my heart cheer- 
ing— 
Adieu to youth's pleasures — farewell to my Jean ! 

"When wild howling storms set the dark woods in 
motion ; 
When loud pealing thunders 'mid pitchy clouds 
roll; 
When the red setting moon meets the foain- spirting 
ocean, 
Oh ! these are the scenes that delight my sad 
soul 



200 songs. 

The lone blighted leas, the hare whistling trees, 
The mist-shrouded mountains my haunts aye hae 
been, — 
From the hoar cliffs surrounding, a deep voice is 
sounding : — 
" Adieu to life's pleasures — farewell to my Jean !" 

Notb. The above beautiful and impassioned song, is the' composition of" 
Mr. A. Harper, Aberchirder, Banffshire. Mr. Harper is a gentleman now 
in the decline of life ; possessed of an amiable and refined mind, and being 
naturally of a retiring and unassuming disposition, although the author of 
many exquisite poems and songs, he is almost unknown— except to a few 
congenial friends— beyond his own locality. Instead of thrusting himself 
forward on public notice, it has been his inclination, as well as his delight, 

" To wander lone by Deveron's stream, 
Or on the banks o* Bogie," 

holding high and healthful communion with that beautiful charmer Nature 
— the goddess of all true poets — whom he has, almost unknown to the world, 
long and ardently worshiped. An Epistle by the same author will be found 
in another part of this volume, (see page, 171,) which is published not only 
for its own intrinsic merit, but also as a proof of the true friendship — founded 
on a reciprocity of feelings, dispositions, and pursuits — which has long ex- 
isted, and, I trust, will long continue to exist between its author and myself. 

P. S. 



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GEORGE AND ROBERT KING, 

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